Fiddles of Gold
by randomfan276
Summary: After the Fall, angels everywhere are desperately searching for vessels. And what with the Dread Doctors and Theo destroying the pack from the inside out, Stiles is just about ready to say yes.
1. Stage 3: Bargaining

**Fiddles of Gold**

 **Stage 3: Bargaining**

On August 26th 2013, Stiles Stilinski walked out his front door and didn't return.

* * *

It started the night that Scott found out. He held out that goddamned wrench, and Stiles felt his stomach drop as the world began spinning out of control. It was all downhill from there, until Stiles found himself watching Scott's retreating back, harsh words ringing in his ears as the skies crashed above him and heavy rain soaked into his skin.

He was painfully aware that his chest was heaving erratically, and the sound of the rain was drowned out by the echo of Scott's voice in his mind. He fought for control, clenching his hand tightly around the cool handle of the wrench as he struggled to slow his breathing. It was no use, though, and in moments there was stabbing pain in Stiles' chest as his head swam, and he knew he was slipping.

"No!" he grunted, desperately. With one last burst of energy, he focussed every fibre of his being on forcefully pushing the voice out of his mind.

Surprisingly, it worked. Stiles' limbs shook with relief the world returned to full definition and his mind fell blessedly blank, his breathing settling down to regular rhythm. He knew that it was only a matter of time before his delicate shield would collapse and he would have to face what had happened, but for now, it was enough.

Glancing at the animal clinic, Stiles was abruptly struck with an urgent need to _leave_. The building was suddenly the last place he wanted to be, so he lifted his leaden feet and made his way into his Jeep with jerky movements, automatically twisting the key in the dash. The engine stuttered to life, and he moved on autopilot to flick on the lights and press down on the pedal, finally finding himself on the road.

Later, Stiles would wonder for how long he drove. He had no idea. He drove mindlessly and aimlessly, losing himself in the motions as he turned down one familiar street after another. At one stage, he found himself on the highway leading out of town, the wide open road beckoning him onward. But he pushed the temptation aside and turned back. He couldn't leave town, he couldn't do that to his dad. He also couldn't face his father, though, so instead he just drove, feeling the comfortable vibrations of his well-worn seat as rain hammered down on the roof and windscreen wipers squeaked against the glass.

He was so caught up in the familiar sensations that he almost didn't notice it at first, the soft voice whispering in his ear. But then it spoke his name, his real name, clear as a bell, and with a start he slammed on the brakes, heart pounding in his chest.

The Jeep screeched, skidding several yards on the wet road before finally coming to a stop. Stiles twisted in his seat, wide eyes flickering over the passenger seat, the back seats, the windows – all were innocently empty.

Clenching his jaw, he gathered his courage and pushed open his door, jumping down onto the street. He was immediately hit by a deluge of icy rain and within seconds was soaked through once more. Shivering slightly, he pulled out his flashlight from the foot well and shined it into the darkness. The raindrops reflected the light, and his vision ended after only a few short feet.

"Who's there?" he yelled, struggling to be heard over the rain.

The universe held its breath, and after a long moment he heard a reply. "Don't be afraid," the soft voice spoke, directly into Stiles' ear.

With a surprised yelp, Stiles spun on his heel, desperately flashing his beam of light into the darkness, but there was nothing to find. "Stop it!" he shouted, frustrated. "I've had a really crappy day, and I'm not playing your game, so show yourself!"

This time, he could hear a faint whistle of air in the trees before the voice again rang in his ear. "It's not a game," it spoke, quiet as ever. "I cannot show myself, as I have no form that your mind can comprehend."

Fear was giving way to confusion and, if he was honest with himself, a faint thread of curiosity, and Stiles felt his heart start to slow. The voice was weirdly comforting, and so far it hadn't tried to overturn his jeep or knock him unconscious, so it didn't seem to be on the same level of vindictive as his recent encounters with the supernatural. "Okay," he replied, still a half-shout. "But you can speak. What do you want?"

"I need your help," the voice replied, and suddenly the empty road and the rain vanished. Stiles was standing on a green field in the middle of the day, the sun shining against a beautiful blue sky. He blinked furiously and shielded his eyes, tearing up at the sudden change in light. He opened his mouth to demand to know what the hell was going on, but before he could, the voice continued.

"This was my home," the voice said, and Stiles' breath caught as a wave of grief, a thousand wailing voices, broke over him. The sorrow was incomprehensible and he choked, mind swimming and legs threatening to give way. It wasn't his grief, he realised, it must belong to the voice, and through the distress he felt a thread of pity for it. Whatever had happened to it, it was horrific.

The sensation lifted, and he somehow sensed the voice's gratitude in response to his pity.

"What happened?" Stiles whispered.

His surroundings changed, and he was frozen as he found himself a bystander in scene after scene of destruction. War, he realised, and he watched as these beautiful creatures of light turned on each other, as millennia of life was extinguished again and again, and before he realised it his vision was blurred and tears flowed down his cheeks, his chest aching with sympathy. He watched as one figure stood amongst a field of destruction, and as others wept in sorrow. He watched as brothers turned on each other and tortured each other, and his throat burned with grief. The scenes continued, and finally he watched as the ground cracked and the beings fell. Their wings were on fire, and the pain was nothing compared to the sensation of loss as they watched their home fall out of their reach, as they plummeted toward a foreign world, and their bond to each other fractured and broke as they finally hit the ground.

Stiles blinked, and suddenly he was back in his own skin, standing next to his Jeep in the heavy rain. He shivered, and was hit with a sensation of loneliness so deep it rattled his bones. He was breathing rapidly, his chest a confused mess of grief and horror, his own and someone else's, and he took a moment to try to compose himself before the voice spoke again.

"That is my story," the voice continued, and Stiles' heart ached. "I cannot go back, and I cannot survive here on my own. This world is foreign, and I do not belong here."

"What can I do?" Stiles whispered.

Again, he could almost feel the being's gratefulness wash over him as it heard his question. "You can say yes."

Stiles was confused, and he felt his eyebrows draw together in a frown. "Say yes to what?"

"Let me share your form," the voice implored. "I cannot exist here in my true form, and you can help me. Please, help me."

Stiles inhaled sharply, and his sympathy was immediately interspersed with dread. He had been used before, a puppet of destruction, and he was shaking his head desperately even before the voice was finished. "I can't, I can't," he spoke in a strangled voice. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that again. I wish I could help, but not like that. Never like that."

A wave of sympathy and comfort crashed over him, and Stiles felt tears sting his eyes. Somehow, he knew that the being understood. He felt a sharp stab of guilt, but couldn't bring himself to retract his statement.

"I understand," the voice said, and the universe sighed and suddenly it was gone. Stiles hadn't even realised that he could feel the being's presence until it vanished, and a fresh stab of loneliness cut into him. He shivered, suddenly freezing to his core, and took a few steadying breaths before forcing his limbs to climb back into his Jeep.

Mind spinning, his engine grumbled to life, and Stiles turned the Jeep toward home.

* * *

Stiles had known the next few days were going to be hell, and he thought he had prepared himself. He was wrong.

He known loneliness before, but not like this. If he was honest with himself, he had never had friends to lose before, except for Scott, and no matter how bad things were he always had Scott by his side to rely on. Now though, he sat alone and watched as his friend walked by, occasionally catching his eye before turning away guiltily and hurrying past. He had a feeling that Scott hadn't even told the others what had happened – everyone had drifted apart so much this year that it wasn't even necessary. Lydia never seemed to be at school, and Malia was lost in her own world; Stiles couldn't even remember the last time she had slept over. His connection to both Kira and Liam had been through Scott; it seemed as though without him, they had no reason to talk to each other.

So he sat next to strangers in class and he opened his mouth to voice his ideas, only to find that there was no one left to listen. And when the final bell rang at school, he found his way to his Jeep, went home, and closed the door behind him to spend his evenings alone in an empty house.

Three days of this, and he wanted to scream. He needed to speak, to have someone listen to him, and the worst part of it all was the growing sensation of dread in his stomach, his instincts that were poking and prodding at him, warning him that something awful was about to happen. He was left restless, pacing, relentlessly researching the Dread Doctors, but everything was ominously quiet and the internet was devastatingly bare of any useful information.

It was on day four that disaster struck. He wasn't even supposed to be there, but Stiles had left his phone in the library and hadn't noticed for hours - after all, who was left for him to call? - so he found himself leaving his house late at night, climbing into his faithful Jeep, and travelling back to the school. Scott's bike was in the parking lot, and Stiles' felt a surge of dread when he spotted it. That wasn't right; Scott had no reason to be here this late.

Stiles' heart rate ticked up, and he tried to quiet his harsh breaths as he slowly picked his path toward the library. There was scaffolding on the outside, he noticed, that he could use to sneak in through the windows, but he immediately dismissed the idea as Donovan's agonised face flashed across his memory. Giving up on subtlety, he headed for the main entrance, flinching as the outer doors to the building scraped loudly against the floor as they opened. Biting his lip, Stiles closed the doors with a soft thud, and crept toward the library doors. There were windows embedded into the solid wood and he sidled up to them, holding his breath as he peered inside.

It was dim inside the library, but the picture before him was horrifyingly clear. Liam's face was twisted, distorted more with anger than the wolf as he leapt toward Scott. Scott was clearly holding back, unwilling to hurt Liam, and Stiles nearly called out to his friend before silencing himself. What could he even do? He couldn't stop Liam; going in there would just make him another person for Scott to have to defend, and it would probably end up causing Scott to be hurt.

Maybe he could reason with Liam? Stiles considered the idea before discarding it with an internal shake of his head. Liam idolised Scott, and was attacking him with blows clearly meant to cause more than just temporary harm. He was well beyond reason. He could try to find a weapon, but that would probably lead to more injury than if he went in without one.

Wolfsbane would probably do the trick, and for a moment Stiles had a wild vision of pumping it through the vents before kicking himself and reigning in his imagination. He didn't even know where to find any, other than Deaton, who was still out of town and who kept his herbs expertly hidden, and by the time he tracked it down Scott would be dead. Besides, a vague memory of a Wikipedia article on ducted air conditioning from three years ago did not make him skilled, and he didn't have a clue how he would get wolfsbane into the room to begin with.

The fight continued, and it was clear the Liam was gaining the upper hand. Standing outside the doors, Stiles felt himself start to panic. His heart was pounding, but his mind was coming up empty. "Come on, come on," he muttered to himself, wheels spinning pointlessly. He was running out of time, he was going to have to do something.

"Fine," he said to himself, preparing to open the doors and run inside, plans be damned. He was going to have to improvise.

He reached for his library card, but it wasn't there. Of course it wasn't, he realised, eyes wide. He had left it behind at the hospital.

"Fuck!" he shouted, not caring if Liam and Scott heard him. He couldn't get into the goddamn room; there wasn't a single thing that he could do, and he was going to have to watch his good friend murder his best friend as he stood there helplessly.

Chest heaving, Stiles felt tears prick his eyes as his fists clenched tight in desperation. That was when he heard it.

The voice was soft, as it had been days ago, and when it spoke his name Stiles felt a warmth of kindness and sympathy wash over him. The pieces fell into place, and Stiles swallowed against a lump in his throat. Every instinct was telling him to say no, but Scott's life was on the line, and there had never been anything he wouldn't do for his friend.

"Okay," Stiles whispered harshly. "Okay, I'll help you, but on one condition. You save my friends, all of them." He was surprised at how steady his voice was. For once, it did not betray his inner turmoil. "You get rid of the Dread Doctors, and Theo, and you promise me that my dad, Scott, Melissa, Lydia, Malia, Kira, Liam – they all get to live in safety from now on."

The voice murmured an agreement, and Stiles had a moment of thankfulness that maybe things were finally going his way.

Then the hallway was lit with a brilliant light, and Stiles couldn't move as it burned his skin, his flesh and all the way into his very soul.

It was the last thing he knew before he was gone.


	2. Aftermath

**Chapter 2 - Aftermath**

Scott didn't know how he had ended up in this situation, but at some point his world had turned upside down. There was something about Theo that was bothering him, and he was starting to wonder whether he was doing the right thing by trusting him. Then there was Stiles, someone that Scott had thought he knew inside out, but who had ruthlessly killed a man and called it self-defence. Kira had lost all control over her kitsune self and, now, Liam had lost all traces of humanity, bearing down on Scott with a terrifying lack of restraint.

Misery swelled within him as Liam's eyes flashed and his jaws snapped, and Scott swallowed against a burning sensation in his throat. He had been defending himself half-heartedly so far, but Liam was backing him into a corner and Scott knew that soon he was going to have to either fight properly or give in.

God help him, but he didn't even need to consider his options. Before Scott, Liam had been just another normal teenager; it was his fault that Liam had been dragged into this mess of death and destruction that seemed to follow him everywhere. He didn't deserve everything that had happened to him, and it was inconceivable to Scott to hurt him further. Liam growled in his throat as he readied himself for a final assault, and Scott's chest tightened. With an effort, Scott forced his body to shift, feeling his claws retract and face smooth back to a human silhouette. His instincts were screaming at him to snarl, to fight back, to survive, but Scott ignored them.

This was his choice. And if he was going to die, then at least he would die as a human.

He closed his eyes, listening to the rush of blood pumping through his veins as his heart pounded against his chest, and he was so focussed on himself that he wasn't prepared when a loud crash sounded from his left. Startling, his eyes flew open, and Scott and Liam whipped around in unison toward the source.

The library doors had swung open and between them stood Stiles, watching them with none of his usual anxiety evident in his stance. In fact, Scott realised with surprise, he was radiating disapproval.

Liam growled threateningly, with a surge of fear Scott realised that Liam was now glaring at Stiles, fangs bared. "Stiles, run!" Scott yelled, suddenly desperate. Thirteen years of friendship could not be erased in four days, and Stiles was terrifyingly human.

To his surprise, Stiles didn't respond. Instead, he set his eyes on Liam, head tilting with an odd expression of curiosity gracing his face. He took a step forward, and Scott yelped in surprise as the lights flickered. He ducked to avoid a shower of sparks falling from an explosion above him, and when he looked up again, Stiles was standing right in front of Liam.

Liam snarled, eyes flashing, and with a powerful arm swung sideways with clear intent to send Stiles flying. Scott's heart pounded in his chest and he automatically leaped toward them, but even as his feet left the ground he knew he wouldn't make it.

What happened next stopped him in his tracks.

The blow connected, but Stiles didn't even budge. Instead, he looked down at Liam's arm with a scornful expression on his face, and in a flash reached out one hand to grip Liam's wrist firmly. Liam twisted, using his left hand to try to break the grip, but for all the good it did he might not have bothered. In fact, Stiles was completely ignoring Liam's efforts, and instead of struggling with him reached out two fingers to gently touch his forehead.

Liam's eyes rolled back the second Stiles' fingers met his skin and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Stunned, Scott couldn't react fast enough to catch him, and even as he reassured himself that Liam's heart was still beating steadily, he felt an icy wave of fear wash over him.

He raised his eyes to Stiles, who was now watching him with that same odd expression. _Not Stiles_ , he reminded himself furiously. Whatever was standing in front of him was not his friend, and was definitely not human.

He let the wolf surge forward, and his voice was thick through his fangs when he spoke. "Let Stiles go," he growled, threateningly.

Not-Stiles smiled slightly. "No," he responded. He stood still, hands raised in a universal expression of peace, and Scott watched him warily. He didn't want to attack him for fear of hurting Stiles and Liam didn't look injured, so he waited, trying to figure out what he wanted.

He was rewarded when Not-Stiles continued without prompting. "Stiles and I have a deal," he explained. "I needed a body, and he wanted your safety."

"No," Scott protested, a portion of his fear giving way to dread. What had Stiles done? "No, let him go. That body belongs to him, you can't just take it!"

"That's right, I can't," Not-Stiles answered, infuriatingly calm. "I need consent, which Stiles gave to me in return for keeping you and your pack safe. So what you need to do is take Liam and go home, I'll sort out the rest."

Scott shook his head, not giving in. "Why should I believe you?"

"I don't really care if you don't," Not-Stiles said bluntly. "Go home, Scott. Tomorrow, the Dread Doctors will be gone. Hayden will be healed, and Theo will have left. You can finish your senior year in peace. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I want Stiles," Scott answered weakly.

Not-Stiles raised an eyebrow. "You turned Stiles away," he pointed out. "But that doesn't matter now. I'm doing this for Stiles, not for you. It was his wish, and I keep my promises."

He turned, and Scott desperately searched his mind for something, anything that would stop him from leaving. He was saved from answering when Not-Stiles paused, and looked him once more in the eye.

"I can destroy the Dread Doctors, but there's always a chance you will be faced with danger in the future," he said. "If you need me, pray. I will be here."

With that, he turned and walked out the door, and there wasn't a thing that Scott could do to stop him.

* * *

"You just let him walk away?" Malia's voice was nearing a shout as she paced Scott's living room, hands clenching and releasing alternately at her side. She spun back toward Scott, eyes flashing blue. "How could you?"

Scott shook his head. "There was nothing I could do! He took Liam down with a touch of his hand, Malia. And I couldn't fight him – what if I just ended up hurting Stiles instead?" Malia growled at him, before giving herself a shake and resuming her pacing. Scott couldn't blame her, he had frustratingly few details that he could share about her boyfriend's disappearance, and if their situations were reversed he doubted he would be taking the news any better.

Lydia's face was pale, but after the initial shock she seemed to compose herself. She had been silent for a while, but now she turned to Scott, face set in concentration. "Okay, he said to pray if you need him. Have you tried?"

"Of course," Scott snapped. A hurt expression flickered across Lydia's face, and he berated himself silently. The last four days had been so hard; he had never gone so long without Stiles and he had not been prepared for how badly he would miss him. It wasn't just his company, he was so used to Stiles being there through thick and thin that being without him was like missing a limb. It was unsettling, and he had been on the verge of losing his temper for the entire four days. Now, Stiles was in the wind, he had been doing everything he could to avoid the thought that maybe this time he wouldn't come back. The prospect of facing a world without Stiles was weighing on him, and he wasn't ready to deal with it yet.

"I'm sorry, I just…" he trailed off, and Lydia managed a weak smile in response. Scott sighed before continuing. "I tried praying the minute he left, and I've been trying on and off ever since then. Of course, I have no idea who or what I'm supposed to be praying to, so who knows if the message is actually going through, if the whole thing wasn't just a sick joke. Either way, there's been no response."

Lydia considered his words, and he could almost see her mind turning before she spoke. "Well, I suppose if it really is as powerful as it seems, then it's almost certainly smart enough to know that you're just trying to make it come back at this stage. Maybe the message is getting through, but it's deliberately not listening."

Scott wasn't sure if she was trying to be comforting, but if so she was doing a terrible job of it. His stomach churned, and he stood abruptly from his seat, moving to the window and pressing a hand to the wall as he stared into the night. _God, Stiles, where are you?_ The darkness offered no answers, and he felt a hollow loneliness expand within him.

"Okay, let's think about this logically," Malia said. Turning his back on the window, Scott saw her abandon her pacing to take a seat, resting her elbows on her knees as she watched Lydia intently. "We don't know much about this thing, but whatever it is, it told Scott to pray for it. So what do people pray to? God?"

"You're trying to say that God possessed Stiles?" Scott asked incredulously.

Malia glared at him. "No," she said, "I'm just thinking out loud. Besides, you're a werewolf who's currently talking to a werecoyote and a banshee. Is the idea of God really that insane?"

Scott didn't have a chance to respond as Lydia interjected. "No, it's not. But it's also probably not true," she pondered aloud. Her eyes were fixed on something distant, and with a jolt Scott realised he recognised her expression from the many times he had watched Stiles unravel a mystery inside his own head. He pushed the memories aside and leaned in to listen.

"People don't just pray to God," Lydia explained. "They pray to saints, angels, all sorts of things. I mean, if we're going to go down this route, than it's probably unrealistic to restrict ourselves to the Christian faith. People pray to deities of most religions, and then there's all of the dead faiths that don't really exist anymore. Pagan gods, that sort of thing." She sighed heavily. "Plus, if you stretch the definition a little, you could almost consider devil worship a form of prayer."

Nausea burned in Scott's stomach, and he felt it clench as her words sunk in. "That's too many," he said softly, more to himself than to anyone else. "How are we ever going to find him when there's so many possibilities?"

For a minute, the air hung heavy with silence. He heard Malia choke back a sob, and he could almost feel the misery emanating from Lydia, before he watched her pull herself together in front of his eyes. "We search," she said firmly. Her green eyes were flashing, and she wore a determined expression that she had once used to rule the school. The stakes were much higher now, but she was fiercer than she ever had been, and Scott knew there was no stopping her when she set her mind to something. "We'll research, and we'll use every resource we have," Lydia continued. "We'll get in touch with Deaton and Argent, and we're not going to stop until we find him."

Malia straightened in her chair, and despite himself Scott felt lighter, a small flame of hope catching fire in his chest. Stiles was still missing, but they weren't giving up on him. He made himself a promise, then and there. He would bring Stiles home if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

Jophiel stood quietly behind the door, watching the wolf inside. One more to go, and then his obligation to his vessel would be complete.

The men who called themselves Dread Doctors had fallen easily, in the end. They were just men, after all, and their trickery with magnetic fields had no effect on Jophiel. Indeed, he had watched as their scornful expressions turned into shock, before quickly sliding into terror as they tried and failed to stop his approach. They had tried to run, but Jophiel had more than enough grace left to seal the exits, and their fists slammed furiously against solid wooden doors as they realised that they were trapped.

Jophiel had no grudge against them himself, so he did not draw out their deaths. Three quick thrusts of his hand, and their hearts were lying on the floor next to their lifeless bodies.

The girl had been more difficult. She was compiled of so many different beings and had lost so much of herself that he had not been able to rebuild her completely. Instead, he had helped the many parts of her to fuse together more smoothly, had removed the poison sliding through her veins, and helped her body to recognise the many different parts of her as her own. Her breathing came much easier and her tortured body was much more relaxed when he left, and he hoped it would be enough.

And now all that was left was the wolf. The boy had not yet noticed him, focussed on the meal before him at an empty table, so Jophiel decided it was time to reveal himself.

He stepped into the room, and the wolf turned in surprise, eyes glowing a brilliant amber. Catching sight of Jophiel, his eyes flickered back to his human blue, and the boy smirked. "Come for a hug, Stiles? To have a cry on my shoulder?" he drawled.

Jophiel tilted his head, considering. He could almost feel the hatred radiating from his vessel at the sight of this boy, and he could understand why. There was an edge of cruelty to the wolf, and it grated.

Pressing his lips together, Jophiel took a further few steps into the room. The wolf raised his eyebrows, standing from his chair and turning to face him. "Nothing to say, there's a first," the wolf commented.

"Stiles isn't here anymore," Jophiel replied, and then he smiled. "But I owe him a favour, and there's only one thing that he asked of me."

He had a moment to appreciate the wolf's expression twisting to one of horror as his eyes widened, then he reached forward dug his fingers into the wolf's neck. When he pulled back, throat dangling from his hand and blood dripping onto the floor, he couldn't help but feel satisfied at a job well done.

* * *

His world was fire.

Stiles had been possessed before, and he thought that he knew what to expect. Being a passive passenger in his own body, nightmares and dreamscapes interspersing with even more horrifying reality; that was what he had been readying himself for in the moments before he gave himself away.

This was altogether different.

There were no dreams, no nightmares. All that existed was heat, light, and pure unadulterated agony as he burned in eternal fire. He wanted to scream, but he had no mouth, and he wanted to beg and plead for escape, but he had no words. Instead, he just existed, a formless thought bathed in flame.

Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of the outside world, but it was a foreign plane to his level of existence and the figures there had no meaning. He retreated further into himself, giving more and more of himself away as he struggled to block out the pain.

His world was fire, and he desperately fought to escape.

And after a while, his world was fire, and it was all he had ever known.


	3. Of Men and War

**Chapter 3 – Of Men and War**

Jophiel lingered at the edges of the field, watching. His brothers milled before him, and he had so far concealed his presence from them. In the short weeks since he had found his vessel, he had been keeping mostly to himself, but he felt the loss of his family keenly and when he discovered that this meeting was occurring he knew he had to be there.

He smiled, enjoying the feeling of being close to so much grace. He yearned for more, and after a moment of hesitation he finally stepped out of the shadows and went forward to meet his brothers.

"Jophiel," he heard a joyous voice exclaim, and he recognised the grace of Remiel tucked snugly behind a youthful, freckled face before him. His smile grew broader as he returned the greeting, and for a moment he basked in the comfort of being so close to another angel. Remiel and he had fought side by side long ago, and the bond that they had forged in the fires of hell was as strong as it had ever been. "Where have you been hiding?"

"Not hiding, I just fell far away from the others," Jophiel explained. "Travel is so slow as a human, and with all the chaos I didn't even know where to start looking for other angels."

"Everything is so slow as a human," Remiel responded, shaking his head in disgust. "Sometimes I don't understand how we are supposed to love these creatures as our Father demanded."

With a jolt of surprise, Jophiel realised that he couldn't agree with the sentiment, and the smile fell from his face as he frowned at his brother. "They have their moments," he argued gently. "My vessel offered himself to me to protect his friends. That is a noble trait, worthy of respect."

Remiel raised an eyebrow in reply. "Then you are one of the lucky ones, brother," he responded. "Your vessel is one of a rare few. The humans I have come across are cowards, looking out for only themselves. There is little to respect in any of them."

Unsettled, Jophiel glanced around the crowd of angels, and for the first time felt uneasy around his family. It was a strange sentiment, and he wondered where it had come from.

In all his millennia of existence, this was Jophiel's first time on Earth, and when he first Fell he was terrified of this strange unknown. However, his journeys of the last few weeks had awakened a part of him that he had no idea existed. Curiosity burned through his very core, and he had been unable to contain a sense of wonder as he had taken in the atmosphere of the small towns, tight-knit communities and wide open roads.

It scared him, a little. After all, if Raphael was to be believed, then curiosity and sentiment had led to the disastrous collapse of the Apocalypse, had led to Michael being imprisoned with Lucifer himself. And more than a few of his brothers had whispered that it was the same traits that had led to Castiel turning against his own kin, rending utter destruction in Heaven before casting his brothers out altogether.

The contradiction tore Jophiel apart. At once, he was supposed to love this creation of his Father's, and that was something that he was finding increasingly natural to do. There was beauty in this world that Heaven had never known, and he could not deny that. But at the same time, there was an inescapable fear that he was taking the first steps down a path that had led to nothing but ruin.

Remiel was eyeing him oddly, and Jophiel smoothed his face, hoping that he had not given too much away. A thread of fear ran through him, and for the first time he wondered if he had made a mistake coming here. His brothers had been through so much in recent times, and if they had an inkling of his thoughts on this planet, he couldn't help but think that his very life might be in jeopardy.

Still, it was that same curiosity that made him stay. He had discovered that this gathering was taking place after crossing paths with a Reaper several weeks ago, but the purpose of it had not been revealed. He had been so desperate for the company of his brothers that he had not cared about the details, but now he felt within him a strange drive to find out, to discover, to _know._

"Remiel, I have not had contact with any angels since the Fall. Tell me, what is this meeting for?"

Remiel stared at him incredulously, before his face glowed with anticipation. His voice was filled with hope as he spoke. "Bartholomew has taken control," he explained. "He has been gathering angels, creating an army to retake heaven and bring us home. One of his commanders called this meeting; he is coming to keep us informed and to instruct us on our next move."

Jophiel's hand twitched, an inherently human gesture of anxiety that he had inherited from his vessel. The prospect of returning home was before him, and he thought that he should be grateful, but instead he found himself filled with foreboding. Something wasn't right.

He opened his mouth to question more, when a movement from his right caught his eye, and he turned.

The sunlight glinted off the cool silver of an angel blade swinging dangerously close to his face, and a millennia of instinct was the only thing that saved Jophiel from injury. Without pausing to think, he reflexively threw himself to the ground, and heard a sickening crack from above his head. Glancing upwards, he saw Remiel's face contort as his hands flew to the angel blade buried in his chest. The angel wielding the blade – Malachi, Jophiel recognised with a jolt – sneered before yanking out the blade, and Remiel opened his mouth in a scream, grace exploding from his eyes and mouth in a brilliant burst of pure white.

Sickened, Jophiel tore his eyes away from his long-time friend and found Malachi advancing on him, blade dripping with blood. Jophiel scrambled to his feet and took a few unsteady steps backward, summoning his own blade. He curled his hand around its comforting weight, and he took a second to glance around the field.

It was absolute chaos. Where the new angels had come from Jophiel had no idea, but there was suddenly twice the number of bodies in the field as there had been moments before, and they were tearing into each other with slashing blades and iron fists. Grace was leaking from wounds and bursting from eyes, and bodies were falling to the ground, one by one with deafening thuds.

They were being slaughtered, he realised, and turned back to Malachi just in time to duck to avoid his swinging blade. He spun, slashing out with his own, and was rewarded with a cut on Malachi's shoulder. Malachi growled at him, and Jophiel danced backwards out of reach, raising his arms in protest.

"I'm not part of this," Jophiel implored, clinging to the hope that Malachi was not as ruthless as his reputation insisted. Malachi paused, tilting his head in curiosity, and Jophiel took advantage of his hesitation to power on. "I swear, I'm not working for Bartholomew. I'm not working for anyone!"

Malachi's lip curled in disgust, and Jophiel's heart plummeted. "Then you are just as bad as they are," he snarled, and raised his blade once more. Jophiel frantically brought his own weapon to meet it, blocking his blows once, twice, three times. He missed the fourth slash, and cried out as Malachi's blade cut deep into his side, grace spilling from the wound.

Malachi smiled, stepping closer to him. Panting, Jophiel dropped his blade to press his hands to the wound, desperately trying to contain his grace. "Brother, please," he pleaded.

He felt a small swell of hope as Malachi's face softened, and he lowered his blade. He stepped closer to him, face inches away from Jophiel's own, and brought a hand forward to gently cup Jophiel's cheek. Malachi's eyes were studying his face, and finally he spoke.

"You are no brother of mine," Malachi whispered, before his arm moved and Jophiel gasped in agony as pain exploded in his abdomen.

His world contracted, and Jophiel lost track of Malachi's movements as he fell to the ground. His own grace was swelling within him, growing larger and larger until he knew that it would not be contained. The burning pain overwhelmed his senses, and he knew he had only seconds left before he would be gone.

His thoughts turned to his vessel, the boy who had given himself away without hesitation to help others. He did not deserve to die like this, Jophiel thought, and with one last burst of energy he forced himself to focus. His grace was growing out of control, but he gathered what he could, held it tightly, and with deliberation wove the boy's wounds back together.

He did not have enough control to heal him fully, but, Jophiel thought, satisfied as he gave himself up to the inevitable, he had given him a chance.

Then his grace swelled, and he burned.

* * *

Castiel stepped out his car, letting the door slam close behind him. He had a recent run-in with an angel that had let slip some interesting news about a meeting, and he knew he should be staying as far away as possible, but he couldn't help himself. He was curious, and anyway, he reasoned, the more he knew about what his brothers were up to, the better prepared he would be to defend himself from them.

Of course, his lack of grace made it impossible for him to arrive on time, and he hoped that the meeting was still ongoing as he softly made his way toward the field. He kept to the shadows, betting his life that his brothers would be distracted enough to not notice his approaching footsteps.

The trees thinned, and he paused. The field should be just ahead, but he couldn't hear any voices. Frowning, he gripped his blade tightly, daring to move closer and brave a glimpse of the clearing.

Castiel's eyes widened in horror at the gruesome scene before him. Vessel after vessel lay in the clearing, and the grass was soaked in blood. Blank eyes stared at him and open wounds gaped at the sky. So many vessels, so many angels, all dead. His heart clenched and he fought against a wave of despair. This was his fault. How had it come to this?

A choked groan distracted Castiel from his thoughts and he spun to his right, heart rate ticking up. Finally, he spotted the source – one boy was lying apart from the rest, chest rising and falling erratically as his breath stuttered. He was alive, Castiel realised with shock, and without hesitation he sheathed his blade, racing toward the body.

There was no grace left in the boy, that was evident, and there was a gaping wound in his abdomen as he lay in a pool of blood. Somehow, the wound had stopped bleeding, and for a moment Castiel wondered if one of his brothers had finally learned to value humanity as he had himself. He dismissed the thought, however. There wasn't time. The boy's skin was incredibly pale, his breathing shallow, and Castiel knew with bone-deep certainty that without help this boy would die in the field.

 _No_ , Castiel thought furiously, gathering the boy to his chest. There had been too much death here, he would not let this boy add to the destruction. The hospital was nearby, and he could drop him off at the front entrance. Shifting the weight in his arms, he turned his back on the field. Today, there would be one survivor. It would have to be enough.

* * *

She stepped softly through the woods, leaves crunching underfoot as she concentrated on the path ahead.

There was no map to follow, but the veil was thin in this area and she could almost see the tendrils of darkness reaching out to her, leading the way to its source. It was ominously quiet, no bird calls or rustling of leaves breaking up the silence, and so she knew she was heading in the right direction.

The tendrils grew thicker as she walked, and she noticed that there were others off in the distance on either side of her, running almost parallel to the one she was following. Ley lines, she realised. They were following the ley lines, and they would soon be converging ahead of her. She must be getting close, and she felt excitement swell within her as she picked up the pace.

Another few minutes and finally she was there. The trees gave way to a clearing, at the centre of which was the remnants of a giant tree. It had been cut down long ago but it was still alive, thrumming with the power of recent sacrifice.

Abaddon looked at the Nemeton and smiled.


	4. A Question of Self

**Chapter 4 – A Question of Self**

"Angels," the Sheriff said flatly. "Angels?"

A part of Scott shared the Sheriff's incredulity, but he ignored it firmly. Angels weren't that much of a stretch from demonic kitsune spirits, right? It wasn't that crazy.

"This is insane," Isaac muttered, and apparently the Sheriff wasn't the only skeptic in the group.

Argent raised an eyebrow at Isaac. "More insane than everything else you've been through?"

"Actually, yes," Isaac responded sardonically. "Angels don't even compare to everything else we've been through. But I get your point so, please, continue."

Argent turned back to the group at large, and Scott noticed that Malia's expression had become hopeful. "That's good, right?" she asked. "Angels are the good guys, so that means that Stiles will be okay, that he's being taken care of."

Argent shook his head in response, and Scott grimaced internally. Of course it wouldn't be that simple. "Not according to my contact. Granted, all of this is third-hand information, but according to the story I was told they're definitely not the good guys."

"What do you mean?" the Sheriff asked, voice tight. When Stiles first disappeared, he had held himself together admirably, but as the months wore on without progress, the strain had begun to show. The lines on his face cut a little deeper, his frame appeared gaunt, and his eyes had lost their normal hint of humour. It was another failure to add to Scott's plate; he knew that Stiles would be counting on him to look after the Sheriff, but this wound was something that he couldn't heal.

"Remember those natural disasters we had a couple of years back?" Argent asked, and yeah, Scott remembered. It had been right before he had been bitten, and while Beacon Hills had been relatively spared, he could still recall feeling the aftershocks from nearby earthquakes. "Apparently that was actually a sign of the apocalypse. As in, the biblical kind."

Even Malia managed to look incredulous at that bombshell, and only Lydia seemed unsurprised, nodding her head as though she had almost expected this. Argent continued, "Hunters tend to run in different circles, and my family has never been heavily involved in hunting demons, so I only just found out about this recently. From what I understand, Lucifer had been released into the world, and two hunters managed to stop him at the last minute."

"Lucifer." Isaac repeated. "The devil. And, what, his legions of demonic forces?"

"More or less, yes," Argent replied. "Demons aren't that unusual, actually, and they've been emerging more and more frequently in the last few years. I've only come across one or two myself, and usually I was able to hit them with Holy Water for long enough to escape. There's a number of exorcisms out there that work, too. In light of recent events, I'll have to give you one of them in case you do run across any."

"What does this have to do with Stiles?" Malia asked, cutting him off.

"Because the angels were instrumental in releasing the devil," Argent explained. "They were working with the demons, and they _wanted_ the apocalypse to happen. So if Stiles really has been possessed by an angel, then he may not be as safe as we hope."

Scott's stomach sank, and he felt his last grasp at optimism fall out of reach. "What can we do?" he asked, speaking up for the first time.

"Not much," Argent admitted, "but there's a few tricks we can use if we have the chance. Angels are incredibly powerful and not much stops them, but I've gotten hold of some Holy Oil which can be used to trap them, and there's a symbol that you all should memorise. Paint it on a wall in blood, and you can blast the angels far enough away that it takes them a while to get back."

"That's it?" the Sheriff asked, desperate. "No exorcism, no way to force them out?"

Argent shook his head, and when he spoke his voice was surprisingly gentle. "I'm sorry," he said. "But while demons have been around a long time, angels are still new to the playing field, and hunters haven't figured that out yet. We're working on it, I promise, and you'll be the first to find out when we do."

A tinny melody cut into the air, and the group as a whole reflexively fumbled for their phones. It was the Sheriff's that was ringing, and he swiped a finger across the screen, bringing to his ear with a gruff greeting.

Everyone was silent, listening as the Sheriff's heart rate picked up as he frowned, his stance changing as he readied himself. "I'll be right there," he said quickly, hanging up the phone and grabbing his jacket.

"Sheriff, what is it?" Scott asked quickly, before he could leave.

The Sheriff turned to the group, lips pressed together tightly. "Somebody found a mutilated body in the woods. I'll call when I know more."

The door slammed behind him as he left, and Scott's stomach churned. This was it. Whatever angel had taken Stiles had been true to his word, and the Dread Doctors had disappeared months ago. Now, though, it looked as though the peace was coming to an end.

* * *

Dean exhaled loudly, glancing over to where Sam was pulling himself to his feet with a groan. There was a shallow cut on his cheek that was slowly oozing blood, but otherwise Sam seemed to be in one piece.

That was more than could be said for the last half dozen people who had crossed paths with the ghost they were hunting. The victims had been so brutally murdered that Dean had spent most of the last week arguing with Sam that it couldn't just be a ghost. Sure, there were cold spots and ominous noises in the night, but ghosts didn't typically leave body parts scattered over suburbs.

Still, Sam had managed to dig up a local story about a man and his daughter who were accidentally killed in a chainsaw accident, and Dean had managed to make no less than twenty references to _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ in the last two days alone, so it wasn't all bad. The ghost had predictably been living in an abandoned farmhouse, and sure enough after a bit of digging and Sam being thrown through one window by the angry spectre, they had stumbled across a photo album of the ghost's little girl resting in a drawer.

The album crackled merrily at Dean's feet, flames giving off an oddly comforting warmth. "Ready to get out of here?" he asked, shouldering his shotgun and stepping toward Sam. Sam nodded, absently rubbing the side of his head with a wince.

"What was that?" Dean frowned, reaching out to turn Sam's head to the side. Sam smacked at his hand, but Dean pressed firmly, searching until he found the wound.

There was a laceration on Sam's scalp, from his temple to just behind his ear. It was fairly deep, but thankfully there was no bone on view. The edges were gaping, though, and Dean released Sam a huff. "You're going to need stitches," he informed him, ignoring Sam's exaggerated flinch at his words.

"Do I get a real doctor, or your tender mercies?"

"Hey, I'll do a better job than the docs and you know it," Dean replied, slightly offended. He'd had plenty of practice at suturing, and at least they had some recently-pilfered local anaesthetic on hand. Sam didn't know how good he had it.

Nudging Sam's shoulder, Dean prompted him to head toward the door. The sun was sinking low in the sky, but with any luck they'd have time to fix Sam's wound and eat at a respectable hour. He was watching Sam's steps, making sure that they were steady and in a straight line, so he didn't even notice that a shadow fell across the doorway until Sam came to an abrupt halt.

Glancing up, Dean's eyes widened and he dropped his shotgun, reaching into his jacket pocket for Ruby's knife. Before him stood a tall man, lean to the point of being skinny, and his eyes were completely obscured by black. He was watching them with a half-smile on his face, and Dean's skin crawled.

"What do you want?" Dean asked, stepping forward and placing himself half in front of Sam. There was a bit of an art to it, shielding his brother without making it obvious enough for Sam to kick up a stink, but he'd perfected it long ago.

"I want the honour of capturing the Winchester brothers," the man replied. His smile broadened. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist looking into these deaths. Scattering the limbs was a nice touch, if I do say so myself."

Well, okay then. Apparently this demon was a touch crazy, not to mention narcissistic. Dean rolled his eyes, not cowed in the slightest, and raised the knife in front of him. "We don't look very captured to me. Is this your plan? Talk us to death?"

He felt Sam shift behind him, and glanced over his shoulder. Sam had his back to him, eyes fixed on a second demon who had slipped through the back door. Great.

Dean growled softly. It had been a long day, Sam needed to get his wound fixed, and there was a pub in town that boasted that it sold the best burgers in the state, and Dean hadn't even had a chance to try them yet. These demons were pissing him off and they hadn't even done anything yet.

Finally catching Sam's eye, Dean cocked an eyebrow in question. Sam gave a slight nod, and that was all the agreement Dean needed.

He heard Sam take off behind him as Dean raced toward the demon blocking the front door. The man stepped to the side, but Dean saw it coming and moved to meet him. He swung his left hand in an arc toward the man's head, but the demon ducked underneath, rushing forward to tackle Dean around the waist.

The force took him off his feet, and Dean's breath knocked out of him as his back hit the floorboards and Jesus _Christ_ he was getting too old for this. Kicking, he felt a swell of satisfaction as his foot connected with the demon's knee, and twisted sideways to manoeuvre out from underneath him. He hadn't quite made it when he spotted a fist swinging toward his face, and managed to jerk his head out of the path just in time. Using the momentum, Dean rolled slightly onto his side, freeing up his right arm. He thrust upward with the knife and felt the telltale give as it slid cleanly into the man's flesh between his ribs, and a second later there was a flash of red as the man yelled out, before finally falling silent.

Pushing the corpse off him, Dean scrambled to his feet and looked across the room. Sam was struggling with the other demon, brandishing an angel blade that they had collected at some point. He was more than holding his own, with the demon covered in multiple deep cuts on his limbs and clearly unwilling to come within arm's reach.

Dean circled behind him, and could almost feel the demon's rising panic as it tried to keep them both in view.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," Dean threatened. "You tell us why we're running into demons so often and we'll give you a clean death. You hold back, and I'll make sure it's painful enough that you wish you were back on the rack. I learned from Alistair, you know. Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

The demon's face was pale, and when Dean looked closely he could have sworn he was trembling. Man, they really had been cornered by Hell's least fearsome. He should have a word with Crowley, tell him that his soldiers had lost their touch.

"Okay, I'll talk," the demon said weakly, raising his hands. Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, who looked as incredulous as he felt. Seriously? Man, Crowley would be disgusted if he could see this.

"Alright, then talk," Sam ordered. His blade was steadily pointed at the demon's neck, and Dean saw the demon eyeing it warily as he spoke.

"There's a hit out on you," he said, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"There's always a hit out on us," he countered. "Tell us something new."

"No, this is for real," the demon protested. "There's a new queen in town, and she wants you dead. She's discovered a way to increase her power, and she's promising to share it with those who do her right. Every demon is desperate to get in her good books; after all, a bit of power can mean a world of difference in Hell."

There was a sensation of foreboding building within Dean, and when he looked at Sam he knew he was thinking the same thing.

"What's her name?" Sam demanded.

The demon's eyes flicked back and forth between them, and he hesitated. Dean grunted, tilting his knife, and the message went through loud and clear as the demon swallowed nervously.

"Her name is Abaddon."

Well, fuck. Of course it was.

There was anger brewing in Dean's chest, and fortunately he had an outlet for it right in front of him. The demon was staring at Sam, so he didn't even see it coming when Dean took two steps forward and buried the knife to its hilt in the demon's back. Red flashed before him, and he yanked back on the knife and didn't watch as the body fell to the ground.

Instead, he looked at Sam. His face was twisted into a strange expression, and Dean knew he probably didn't look any better.

Fallen angels were fighting each other, Cas was practically human, Crowley was going insane, and now this. It was never going to end.

* * *

Holy _fuck_ , he hurt.

That was his first thought as his eyes slowly opened. The pain was all over – his limbs ached dully, his head throbbed, and his abdomen was a swirling pit of fire.

He grunted, and managed to roll onto his side with a groan of pain. There was a sting in his arm, and he blinked down to see a cannula tracking into his vein, a bag of fluid slowly running through it. Why was there a cannula? Raising his head to take in surroundings, he was faced with a small room painted in off-white, a silent TV above him.

 _Hospital_ , the word floated to him, and he relaxed a little into his bed, head swimming and suddenly exhausted from the effort of moving.

He lay there for a while, gradually becoming more awake, which unfortunately brought with it a keen awareness of the many tubes running through his body; down his nose, out of his abdomen, into his bladder. The one in his nose was rubbing harshly against the back of his throat, and he felt an irritating urge to pee that he knew must be somehow due to the one in bladder. Suddenly annoyed, he raised a hand to the tube in his nose and ripped off the tape that was securing it. He pulled, gagging slightly as it slid against his throat, and felt a small swell of satisfaction as it slipped out easily. Glaring, he threw it on the floor as far away from the bed as possible.

The door opened, and he looked toward it mulishly, preparing his argument even before the nurse entered. He was _not_ having that thing put back in.

The nurse who entered was a middle-aged, motherly figure, kind eyes set in a lined face, and when her eyes met his her face lit up with a bright smile. "Well hello there," she said lightly. "Good to see you awake again."

"Again?" he responded, and he coughed as his throat scratched. Ow. He tried to swallow, but his tongue was paper-dry, and all it did was exacerbate the pain.

"Oh, you poor thing, it's been a while since we last cleaned your mouth, it's bound to be dry. I can't let you drink just yet, but I can give you some water to wet your tongue, if you'd like?"

He nodded, and she held a glass and straw to his mouth, cautioning him once more as he was tempted to down the lot. He sipped carefully, and felt instant relief as his mouth soaked up the fluid. Dear god, that was much better.

Realising she hadn't answered his question, the nurse put the glass down and spoke gently to him. "You're in the hospital," she started, and he refrained from rolling his eyes. She was just being kind, easing him into it, he knew, so he let her continue without interruption. "You've been here a few weeks, and you've been pretty out of it the whole time. At first you were asleep for most of the day, and just recently you've been waking up for short periods, although I don't think you really knew where you were. Today, though, it looks like you've turned a corner."

Her voice was overwhelmingly optimistic, and his stomach churned as he settled back against the sheets. What the hell had happened to him? He grasped for a memory, but nothing came to mind. He was distracted from his thoughts as the nurse continued to speak.

"We've been feeding you through a tube, which I notice you've managed to pull out yet again." She seemed more amused than annoyed, so he didn't bother to try to look abashed. "Seeing as how you're awake now, though, we'll get the Speechies in to see how you swallow, and with luck we may not need to put it back in."

Thank god for small mercies. "What about the tube in my bladder, and my stomach?" he asked.

"They'll have to stay in a little longer," the nurse said gently. "We'll need to make sure you're staying awake properly this time before taking out the bladder catheter, and the stomach one is up to the surgeons. You had some internal bleeding when you first came in, and you've had two separate surgeries since you've been here. The last one was just two days ago, and they normally like to leave the drains in for a few days afterward to make sure there's no blood or fluid collecting in your belly. Better out than in, I'm afraid."

He wasn't sure he shared the sentiment, but he didn't think he'd have much luck convincing her otherwise so he let it go for now. Questions were racing through his mind, so he picked one at random and asked, "Why do I feel so weak?"

Her face was sympathetic as she replied. "Oh honey. Like I said, you've been here a few weeks, and you've been lying in bed pretty much that whole time. It's common for people to become weak after not moving for a while. You may end up needing some rehab before you go home, we'll see."

He nodded in reply. That made sense, he supposed, although the thought of having to stay in hospital was giving him some undue anxiety.

His nurse's face had turned to one of curiosity and she sat down next to him. "I've got a question for you, now, kiddo," she started. He raised his eyebrows, gesturing her to continue. "You arrived on our front doorstep with no ID and no one has come to claim you. We've got you down as a John Doe, but now we should be able to get you in the system properly. So, what's your name, honey?"

He hesitated. His mind swirled, grasping for a response.

He had been so distracted with catching up with his situation that he hadn't even noticed earlier. Somehow, he knew what a hospital was, and a nurse, and he could identify the TV although with a jolt of shock he realised that he couldn't for the life of him recall any shows. He looked at objects around the room and names for them came to mind, and he instinctively knew how to drink through a straw.

But that was it. He knew there must be more, but he strained his memory and came up blank. God help him, but life as he knew it was ten minutes long and constrained to four walls.

The nurse was waiting for a response, and he licked his lips nervously before replying.

"I don't know."


	5. Revelations

**Chapter 5 - Revelations**

Bobby walked slowly down the aisle, eyes skimming over shelves of familiar books. This was the kind of borrowing he liked to do - the world was taking a breath between supernatural crises and he could take his time, searching for a book he hadn't yet read to take home and discover gradually from the comfort of his living room.

And God bless her, but Claire had done a wonderful job creating a fascinating section on the weird and occult. Bobby had asked her about it years ago, when she had first arrived in Sioux Falls and taken over managing the library. She had looked at him with tears in her eyes and pointed out that she never asked him why he continued to borrow from that section. He had fumbled for an excuse but she had cut him off, explaining that everyone had demons in their past that they couldn't quite bring themselves to leave behind. Bobby hadn't asked again after that, but he and Claire had developed a real friendship over the years, and he hoped that she had found more solace in her method of healing than he had in hunting.

If anything, her methods were definitely safer. The library was as clean, cool and quiet as ever, whilst Bobby's house was still mostly empty as he tried to find furniture that reminded him of his old home. Goddamn Leviathans didn't leave anything standing, and rebuilding had been a long and tiresome process. Finally, though, he had enough home comforts to be able to relax. Soon he would be restocking his bookshelves - once he bought some - but for now he would settle for a library book and a nice glass of scotch.

A heavy book with a peeling spine sitting innocuously on the bottom shelf caught Bobby's eye, and he lowered himself down to read the title. _The Dynamics of Werewolf Packs,_ it read proudly, and with a start he noticed a fine print of _Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent_ beneath.

"Well that's something," Bobby breathed, interest piqued. He hadn't had much to do with the Argent family, which was largely a deliberate choice on his part after a particularly unpleasant run-in with Gerard Argent years ago. The man had been arrogant and cruel to boot, and even as a child his daughter seemed to be headed the same way. Still, the family was well-known to be the foremost experts in werewolves, and Bobby couldn't help his curiosity on what they might have to say on the lesser-known aspects of werewolf lore. Picking up the book, he stood and headed toward the counter.

Now there was something else he would have to ask Claire, he thought wryly as he spied the young man standing behind the counter, intently focussed on a book. The boy had appeared in the library weeks ago, and whenever Bobby had tried to pry into his past he found the conversation inevitably derailed. Moreover, while the kid definitely had an interest in reading, he didn't strike Bobby as the type that would be content to spend his days in a quiet library with only old townsfolk like himself for company. Something wasn't right about the kid, but Bobby couldn't quite figure it out and so far Claire wasn't talking.

The boy's eyes were wide as they skimmed back and forth with enviable speed, and Bobby noticed with surprise that it was one of Claire's occult books, a basic beastiary. This wasn't the first time he'd seen Claire take in a stray, but this boy might just be the oddest of them all.

Bobby dropped his book on the counter with a loud thump and was rewarded by the boy startling dramatically, arms flailing out as his head jerked upward, and a second later he had managed to fall onto the floor with a resounding crash. Bobby smiled as a groan floated up to his ears. Whatever was going on with this kid, he was definitely no threat.

"Hi Bobby," he heard, and the kid scrambled to his feet. His dark hair was a mess and the boy was so god damn skinny, but his light brown eyes still shone with energy.

"Dave," Bobby returned the greeting, and nodded to the open book on the counter. "Little light reading?"

Dave smiled, eyes lighting up in excitement. "It's actually really cool," he began, the speed of his speech picking up. "It's written like an actual encyclopaedia, and there's all these additions to the traditional stories that make them fascinating. Plus, it goes into methods of attacking various monsters, and self-defence."

Bobby raised an eyebrow, amused by the boy's enthusiasm, but didn't speak as the kid rambled on. "Like, did you know that salt will ward off most supernatural creatures? The predominant theory is that it has purifying properties, which is well documented in multiple cultural traditions. Mountain ash can work as well – it's more selective about what it repels, but with certain creatures apparently it's a much better bet than salt. No one really knows the reason for that, though, and obviously it's a lot harder to get a hold of, so in my opinion, if you ever get attacked by a ghost, head for the salt. Even if it doesn't work, at the very least it gives you an excuse to keep salt in the house, because who cares about blood pressure when there's a vindictive ghost haunting your ass?"

"Breathe, kid," Bobby finally cut in, half-serious. "Thanks for the advice, though, I'll have to remember that one." Dave smiled and reached for Bobby's book to scan it.

" _The Dynamics of Werewolf Packs,"_ he read aloud, and raised an eyebrow at Bobby. "And you complain about my choice of reading. Have a werewolf problem, do you?"

"Just being prepared." Bobby studied him, finally deciding to ask the question that had been on his mind since Dave first appeared in the library a month ago. "How old are you, kid?"

Dave looked up at him, surprised. "Why?" he answered, clearly hesitant.

Bobby considered talking around the question, before quickly discarding the option. When this kid had first arrived, he had raised Bobby's suspicions with his abrupt appearance in the town and apparent lack of history. Bobby had wasted an entire week stalking his every move, but had discovered nothing but what was clearly an extremely lonely life. Dave hadn't reacted to silver, salt or holy water, and if he was a human with evil intent surely he would have done something by now. Everything was pointing to Dave being just a normal human with strange interests and a past that he didn't like to talk about, and maybe it was time that Bobby took a chance on someone.

Realising he hadn't answered Dave's question, Bobby considered his words carefully before replying. "You're obviously not in school right now and I know Claire wouldn't let you be here if you're supposed to be there. But if you've only recently graduated, why are you working in a library in a town away from your family instead of going to college, or learning a trade, or getting drunk and ruining your future?" Bobby frowned at him. "It's unusual, that's all. It makes me worried about you, because all the explanations I can think of are bad ones, and you're a good kid. I don't want to see you get hurt."

Dave's expression softened, and he licked his lips nervously. He seemed to be struggling to find the words so Bobby waited patiently, letting him speak in his own time. He was rewarded when the kid finally looked him in the eye, face guarded. "I've never told anyone this other than Claire, but fuck it, you already know me better than nearly everyone, and isn't that a little sad?" He laughed humourlessly, and Bobby realised with a jolt that his chest was tight with sympathy. What had happened to this boy that Bobby, who he had occasional conversations with in the library, could know him better than anyone?

"The truth is, I don't know how old I am," Dave continued, and Bobby's eyes widened in surprise. "I woke up in the hospital a few months back with a hole in my stomach and no memory of who I was, and I've been making it up as I go along since then. I tried to get a job in a bar when I was first discharged, since that's what everyone did in the movies that they had in the hospital, but apparently I look younger than twenty-one and since I have no ID..." he trailed off with a shrug.

"I was getting pretty desperate and there's a massive hospital bill hanging over my head so when I saw the sign advertising a job here I applied and told Claire the whole truth. She believed me, thank god, and was kind enough to take pity on me. And that's it. That's my whole story. I could try to do something different, but what's the point? Where am I going to go?"

"You haven't tried to find out where you came from?" Bobby asked, confused. "I can help you get started if you're not sure how."

He was surprised when Dave shook his head sharply, and when he met Bobby's gaze his eyes were shining with unshed tears. "Maybe there's someone looking for me somewhere, but wherever I came from, the one thing I'm certain of is that I don't want to go back."

Bobby couldn't keep the shock out of his voice. "What? Why?"

Dave's breaths were shaky as his picked his words, and there was an edge of pain to his face that Bobby wished he could unsee the moment he noticed it. In that moment, Bobby felt his last drop of suspicion evaporate. Maybe he was getting soft in his old age, but damn it if he didn't believe every last word that the kid was saying.

"Whoever I was, I ended up dumped on the front step of the hospital with what looked like a stab wound in my abdomen, and no one came forward to claim me. That's not a life I want to go back to."

Bobby wasn't sure he agreed, but he understood where Dave was coming from. "Fair enough," he said softly, cupping Dave's shoulder gently with a palm. Really, he wanted to pull the kid into a hug, but he wasn't sure that would go down too well.

Eyeing Dave, he let slip an offer before he had a chance to change his mind. "But whoever you used to be, right now you clearly can't cook, judging by the size of you. Why don't you come around tonight for a decent meal for once?"

Dave looked at him with surprise, which quickly melted into gratitude. "Thanks, Bobby."

* * *

Melissa cracked open the heavy door and peeked inside. Scott instinctively held his breath, and noticed Lydia doing the same behind him. There was a long moment while Melissa scanned the room, but finally she relaxed and swung the door open fully, inviting them inside.

Scott and Lydia crossed the threshold quickly, and Scott pulled the door closed behind him with a soft thud. He immediately noticed the change in temperature - the air conditioning was turned down in this part of the hospital, and goosebumps were rising on Lydia's arms as she hugged herself for warmth. Melissa didn't seem to mind, though, wasting no time in walking the length of the room, eyes on the metal drawers lining the walls.

Less than a minute later, she came to a stop. "This is it," Melissa said, and gripped the handle on one of the drawers, giving it a sharp twist. The latch released with a click and she pulled hard, revealing a cool metal slab and a body wrapped in plastic.

Scott eyed the bag warily, and finally gathered his courage. Reaching out, he pulled down on the zip, wincing a little as the man's pale face was revealed. True Alpha he might be, but he would never be comfortable handling dead bodies. This was Stiles' turf, not his.

Ignoring the now-familiar pang of hurt at the thought of Stiles, Scott turned to Lydia. "Anything?" he asked.

"Not yet," she responded with a shake of the head. Okay, then. Steeling himself, Scott drew the zip down as far as it would go.

Nausea swelled within him, and Scott took a moment to marvel at the brash confidence of his sixteen year old self, who excitedly took off into the woods in search of a dead body. Reality was a lot more gruesome than he had anticipated.

One of the man's arms had been flayed, the skin literally peeled away to reveal the flesh beneath. According to the ME's report, that almost certainly happened before death. There was a spiralling symbol framed with strange letters carved into his chest, and a gaping hole in his neck where his throat had been torn out. Scott could see the frayed edges of his oesophagus and trachea hanging limply within the hole, and swallowed as he forced himself to look away.

"It's definitely related to the first body," Melissa explained. "The symbol is the same, and the Sheriff tells me that forensics think it's likely caused by the same knife, although they're not sure yet. The difference is that the first victim was killed by a knife to the throat. This person was tortured, then had his throat pulled out."

"Whoever it is, they're escalating," Scott said.

Melissa nodded in agreement. "More than that, they had the strength to rip this man's throat out. That's inhuman."

Scott looked up sharply, and noticed that Lydia was circling around to the foot of the body, eyes fixed on its chest. Her face was creased in concentration, mouth moving silently.

"Lydia?" He questioned. Her green eyes flicked to him before returning to the corpse's chest.

"The letters," she explained. "It's archaic Latin."

"What does it say?"

"I'm not sure," Lydia responded. "Something about a father, and power...it's just words, not a sentence."

"Why would somebody carve Latin onto his chest?" Melissa wondered aloud.

Scott had a feeling he knew where this was going, and he definitely didn't like it. Locking eyes with Lydia, he saw her face twist and knew she was thinking the same thing.

"He was a sacrifice," Lydia said, and Scott's heart clenched. "Somebody's committing human sacrifice."


	6. It's a Brand New Day

**Chapter 6 - It's A Brand New Day**

The Impala grumbled as Dean finally turned off the road and onto a familiar rocky driveway. "Almost there, baby," he mumbled, patting the dash with one hand.

There was a snort from the passenger seat, and Dean noticed Sam smirking out of the corner of his eye. He rolled his eyes but didn't respond. It had been a long time since he had managed to get any sort of smile out of Sam, so if it was going to be at his expense, so be it.

The head wound from a few weeks ago was healing up nicely, if Dean said so himself, and Sam was lucky enough that his hair hid the scar. The same couldn't be said for Dean, who was sporting a noticeable lump on the back of his head from their last run-in with a group of demons two days ago.

It was another slam-dunk monster hunt that had gone completely sideways at the last minute with no warning. Really, Dean mused, they should probably have come to expect a last-minute FUBAR by now, it happened often enough. This was different, though, even for them.

They had been chasing what looked like either a rugaru or a werewolf; a man-turned-beast who was roaming the streets after dark and leaving mutilated bodies in its wake. They had managed to identify the monster, a man in his thirties with eyes that flashed blue and a demeanour that oozed malice. Dean had just about cornered him after a long night of stalking when suddenly the monster had smirked at him, and seconds later he and Sam were surrounded by five black-eyed demons intent on dragging their corpses to their new queen.

Thank god Castiel had been in town, and had managed to find his mojo again. Dean and Sam had been entirely unprepared to take on five demons, and they were definitely on the losing end of the fight when he had arrived.

The entire debacle had raised more questions than answers, though. Apparently Abaddon was gaining power, and Dean could no longer ignore the rumours of her new power source. Which was how they found themselves here once again, Bobby's familiar driveway disappearing under the Impala's tyres as the new house gradually came into view.

"Bobby's done well with the house," Sam commented, and Dean couldn't hold back an impressed noise of agreement. Bobby hadn't rebuilt exactly the same as before, but the new house had the same feel of warmth and family. The exterior was now brick, but he had retained the old comfortable front deck, which housed a few well-worn chairs and a view of the front yard and beyond.

The Impala came to a halt, and Dean killed the engine before stepping into yard and grabbing his bag from the back seat. Bobby's truck was parked next to him but the house remained silent, and Dean frowned as he shrugged off a sense of foreboding. It wasn't unusual for Bobby to take his time coming to the front door, but he still double-checked the comfortable weight of his gun in his jeans and knife at his ankle before approaching the entrance and knocking loudly.

There was no response, not even the sound of movement from within, and Dean turned to find Sam hovering behind him, brow creased in concern. Their eyes met, and Dean watched as Sam set his jaw.

As one, they drew their weapons, shouldered their bags, and stepped warily off the porch. Dean jerked his head at Sam, who nodded in reply and turned away to circle the house from the left. Dean turned right, and barely made it two steps before a gunshot cracked through the air.

Dean's heart jumped into his throat, and he dropped his bag on the ground carelessly as he broke into a sprint. Eyes wide, he circled the house and scanned the backyard. No one was visible. Resisting the urge to call out, Dean turned to see Sam approaching from the other side of the house, gun outstretched, and he caught Dean's eye with a shake of the head.

Another loud crack rang out, and Dean focussed on pinpointing the sound. It was further into the yard, and he made sure to keep Sam in his peripheral vision as he started creeping toward it.

He was approaching the far right corner when he finally heard voices floating toward him, and Dean breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he recognised Bobby. He didn't sound hurt - in fact, Dean realised with a start, he sounded almost cheerful. Sam seemed to have noticed the same thing, judging by the quizzical expression on his face, and Dean felt his tense muscles relax.

"Next time," he heard Bobby say, "brace your feet properly. You know what to expect now in terms of kick-back, so it's a matter of preparing yourself to match that force. Otherwise you'll just end up back on your ass again."

Shooting lessons? Well, that was new. Dean finally spotted them behind one last row of cars, and paused to study them before he revealed himself.

Bobby's face was alight with amusement, something that Dean hadn't realised he'd missed until he saw it before him. Standing next to him was a teenager, all pale skin and long limbs. The kid was covered in dirt, biting his lip in concentration as he aimed his weapon at a line of tin cans twenty yards away. His stance was almost perfect, Dean noticed, impressive for someone who was clearly a beginner. The kid squeezed the trigger and a third shot rang out. One of the cans flew off the table, the boy's face glowed in excitement as he grinned.

"I got one!" He crowed, carefully flicking the safety on before practically bouncing with glee. "And I stayed on my feet this time!"

"We'll make a marksman of you yet, kid," Bobby chuckled, before swinging around to look Dean in the eye. "You gonna stand there forever, boys?"

Sam and Dean exchanged surprised glances before emerging from where they had been crouched, Dean slipping his gun back into his jeans. "Hiya Bobby," he greeted. "Could have warned us to expect gunshots when we arrived, you know."

"Could have warned me you were coming," Bobby responded with a roll of his eyes. The kid behind him was shifting his weight nervously, and Dean took pity on him.

Stepping past Bobby, Dean stretched out a hand to the boy. "Hi, I'm Dean, and this is my brother Sam," he introduced, and was surprised when the kid gripped his hand firmly.

"Dave," the boy responded. "Good to meet you."

"Same." Pleasantries out of the way, Dean turned back to Bobby. "Sorry for barging in, but we've got a bit of a problem."

Bobby dismissed his concerns with a wave. "Don't worry about it, you know you're always welcome here. Come on, I'll get started on dinner and you can put your stuff away."

"I should head off," Dave spoke up from behind, handing the gun back to Bobby.

To Dean's surprise, Bobby shook his head. "You're not leaving here without a decent meal, so don't even try. You're not intruding, Dave, don't worry."

Well, clearly they had been gone too long. Sam's surprised expression said it all as they made their way back to where they had dropped their bags. Bobby definitely had some explaining to do.

* * *

Stomach full and limbs warm, Dave settled back into his seat and tried to focus on the words before him. He was stuck at Bobby's until the man was ready to drive him home, which would surely be coming sooner rather than later. He thought that he must have known how to drive in his last life since it had felt so natural when Bobby let him take the wheel in the yard, but it turned out that Jody, the town Sheriff who was a surprisingly good friend of Bobby's, had put her foot down at letting an unlicensed amnesiac teenager drive in her town.

It was about time, really, Dave mused, given that she seemed to look the other way when it came to Bobby more often than not. He had noticed the number of guns that Bobby had lying around the place the first time he had come around for dinner, and had spent a good portion of that night Googling with fervour. As he'd suspected, some of those guns were distinctly less-than-legal, and yet Jody didn't seem to mind.

What was more concerning, really, was the huge numbers of suspiciously occult objects Dave had found. He had noticed the symbols scratched into the walls halfway through his second dinner, and once he noticed one thing he had noticed everything. The ornamental bowl by the fireplace, the heavy books stacked neatly by the door, the cupboards full of what he really hoped weren't animal parts, but he suspected probably were. He had freaked out for a good thirty minutes before deciding that hey, if he could lose his memory like a storyline in a bad soap opera, then who knows, maybe Bobby knew something that the rest of the world didn't. Or maybe he was just a crazy old coot; either way, he was a rare kind face and Dave wasn't going to be quick to throw that kindness away.

The newcomers were interesting, though. Sam and Dean clearly knew Bobby well, and had spent most of the dinner eyeing Dave curiously and prying into his and Bobby's friendship. There was a memorable moment where Dean had started interrogating Dave on his past, until Dave turned the tables and started asking Dean questions about his own life, which shut him up fairly quickly. Judging by Bobby's poorly-masked smile and Sam's incredulous expression, that was not an easy thing to do, and Dave couldn't help but feel somewhat proud of himself.

He could hear them now, and he looked intently down at his book in case anyone glanced his way. Sam was having a shower and Dean was helping Bobby with the dishes, clearly under the impression that the combined noise would deter any prying ears. Or maybe he had just underestimated Dave's level of curiosity, as he strained to listen and was rewarded as he started to make out their words.

"Enough about Dave, he's a good kid and I've vetted him, he's as human as they come," Bobby was saying, and Dave couldn't help himself as his head jerked up in shock. What? What had Bobby done to him? Shifting uncomfortably, Dave almost missed Dean's response.

"Okay, fine, if you're sure," Dean was saying, not sounding remotely pacified, before changing the topic. "We came here because we're worried about Abaddon. You know that she wants us dead, and there was that rumour from weeks back that she's found a way to make herself more powerful. Well, we've had a few more run-ins with demons lately, and we're starting to wonder if there's something to it."

"Well shit," Bobby responded, sounding worried. "She's got a lot of demons on her side, then, I take it?" Dave missed Dean's reply, but assumed it was in the affirmative as Bobby continued. "Then that's bad news for all of us. We need to find her before she finds us."

There was a squeak as the tap turned off, and Dave hastily looked back down at his book. "I'll drop Dave home and we can get started," he heard Bobby say.

Dave licked his lips nervously, before finally making up his mind and snapping the book closed. He stood to meet Bobby as he entered and spoke before Bobby even had a chance to open his mouth. "I want to help," he said.

"Help with what?" Bobby asked mildly. "There's plenty of work to be done around the place, but we can do that another time."

So that's how he was going to play it. Fine. Dave had spent enough time since he woke up trying to figure out what the hell people were talking about when they made references to things he didn't remember, and he was starting to get sick of it. Being kept in the dark might just be his last straw. "Cut the crap, Bobby," he bit out. "I know that all of this supernatural stuff isn't just an interest, and I heard that you have a demon problem on your hands. Abaddon, right?" Without pausing for a response, Dave ignored Bobby and Dean's shocked expressions and pressed on. "I know I'm new to this, but I lost my memory, Bobby, not my wits. I'm a quick learner and I'm good at research, let me help."

"No, kid, not a chance," Bobby responded firmly. "You say that your old life was bad? This is worse. You don't want any part of it, trust me. I'm not going to drag you into this world."

He had a point, Dave knew, but his curiosity was burning and he knew that he wouldn't be able to rest until he'd discovered more, so he shook his head and made his final push. "You can't stop me, though," he said. "I'm sorry, but I've heard too much to just bury my head in the sand. Demons, knights of hell...if you don't want me working with you, then I'm doing it by myself. There no way I can just hang out at the library every day scanning out _Fifty Shades of Grey_ for middle-aged women knowing this is out there. I just can't."

Bobby glared at him for a moment, before his expression crumpled and he sighed heavily. "Damn it, kid," he muttered. "Fine. But you're strictly on research, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," Dave answered with a half- salute, ignoring the glare he received in response. He grinned broadly. Despite the danger – he'd have to be blind to miss the wound on Dean's head, and the weapons scattered around the place – he couldn't help a swell of excitement. There was a whole new world right at his fingertips, and he was itching to discover more.

"Okay, then, if that's sorted," Dean interjected, looking between Bobby and Dave with a frown, "what the hell was this about losing your memory?"


	7. A Warning To The People

**Chapter 7 – A Warning to the People**

"Who decided that going into the woods in search of a psychotic murderer is a good idea, again?"

Scott fought the urge to snap back a response, clamping down on his irritation. Isaac had a habit of snarking when he was nervous, and he knew he didn't mean any harm by it. Really, he should be grateful it was just Isaac. If Stiles were here, the two would be bickering back and forth, and that had always driven him crazy.

Unfortunately, Malia seemed to have inherited her boyfriend's lack of patience, and was more than happy to fill the void.

"If you're scared, leave. No one's forcing you to be here," she sniped, flashing electric blue eyes in Isaac's direction.

Scott was tempted to bang his head against a wall, but fortunately Kira intervened. "Well, I'm kind of nervous," she volunteered quietly, and Malia's expression softened. "This isn't exactly our best plan, but what choice do we have? There's already four dead bodies, and we're all here because we don't want there to be any more."

"So what are we looking for again?" Parrish asked hesitantly.

"We don't know," Scott replied. No one looked particularly comforted by that, so he sighed and continued. "Look, we know that someone's committing sacrifices, and we know that they're strong, but that's it. There's no claw marks, no obvious scent, and the bodies were dumped so we don't have a crime scene to give us clues. That's why we're here. We need to know what we're up against if we're going to be able to stop them, and I'll bet anything that these sacrifices have something to do with the Nemeton. If the murderer isn't there, then traces of them probably will be, and maybe we can prepare ourselves to be able to fight them later on."

"This sounds like something that the cops would be awfully good at, though," Isaac pointed out. "Why isn't Stilinski here?"

Scott swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Because Stiles is gone, and the least I can do for him is try to keep his dad safe. I don't want him involved in this, okay?"

He glanced around at his friends, whose faces reflected understanding. Malia's eyes were blue again as she gave off waves of loneliness, and Lydia was staring at the ground, breathing uneven. Kira gave him a small smile and reached out to squeeze Scott's hand, and with an effort Scott pushed past the pain and pulled himself together.

"Alright, so - Parrish. You've found the Nemeton before, think you can do it again?"

* * *

Okay, so maybe this wasn't his best plan. They'd been traipsing through the Preserve for half an hour, and so far there was no sign of the Nemeton. There was however, a distinctive smell of rotting eggs that seemed to be getting stronger the further into the woods they got, and it was starting to drive Scott to distraction. Isaac had pulled his scarf up to cover the bottom half of his face, and even Lydia was wrinkling her nose in disgust.

"Got your sense of direction yet?" Isaac's muffled voice reached him, and Parrish shook his head uncertainly.

"I'm not sure-" Parrish broke off as a loud crack sounded behind him and he spun around to face an intruder, gun appearing in his hand.

The man standing before him didn't seem intimidated in the slightest. He was middle-aged and lean, and simply raised his eyebrows as he stared down the barrel of the gun. "Oh, this is going to be _fun_ ," he said with a smirk, and before Scott knew what was happening the man's eyes flickered to black and he knocked the gun out of Parrish's hand and grabbed him by the throat.

Chaos erupted, and Scott growled, feeling his fangs emerge as he flicked open his claws. He was peripherally aware that other people had appeared from all sides and the unmistakeable sound of fighting was breaking out around him, but he focussed on the man currently trying to strangle Parrish and took off toward him with a powerful leap.

He never landed, something heavy crashing into his side and knocking him forcefully into the dirt. There was a sickening crack and a burning pain exploded in Scott's ribs, and for a second he couldn't breathe. His chest was on fire, but Scott struggled to push the pain to the back of his mind. There wasn't time to deal with it right now.

Pushing his legs beneath him, Scott started to lever himself off the ground, but made it only a few inches before he was pushed back into the dirt, pinned by a blonde woman who was glaring at him with those same black eyes.

"Come on, little wolf, show me what you've got," she taunted, baring her teeth, and an unfamiliar anger ignited in Scott's chest. Eyes burning, Scott roared, and wound back his arm to throw a violent punch at her face. She went flying and Scott didn't stop to feel guilty, instead taking a second swipe at her as he leapt to his feet, before glancing up at Parrish.

Parrish was still being held by the neck, but as Scott watched his eyes burned amber and his hands clenched onto the man's arms, tearing them sideways and off his throat with a strangled yell. He seemed to have found his momentum, so Scott refocussed his attention on the woman in front of him, who was clambering to her feet with a pissed-off expression twisting her features. "Oh you've done it now," she threatened, and for a moment Scott saw red.

He was _done_ with all these monsters. No matter how many they defeated, these things kept coming to Beacon Hills, and Scott was tired of losing friends. He roared, and for the first time allowed the wolf to surge forward completely. He threw another fist at the woman, and with a sickening crack her head spun around and she slumped into the dirt. She was still moving but didn't seem be to getting very far, so he glanced up to see Lydia pinned to a tree, struggling furiously as a man leered at her.

Scott vaulted in their direction, tackling the man into the ground and slashing at his face; once, twice, three times. Blood spurted from the man's mouth and he made a guttural choking sound; ignoring him, Scott fixed his eyes on the man attacking Isaac. His gaze skipped over Malia and Kira; they had positioned themselves back-to-back and seemed to be giving as good as they got, whereas Isaac was stepping backwards, desperately warding off the huge man advancing on him without managing to land any hits of his own.

Snarling, Scott's muscles bunched and within moments he was flying through the air at the man, crashing into him and sending both of them rolling across the rough ground. He was slashing, punching, kicking, and the man barely had a chance to defend himself. He was so caught up in the fight that he almost didn't notice when his opponent suddenly stopped, muscles becoming stiff and eyes opening wide.

Confused, Scott paused and looked up. Around him, all of the attackers had frozen, standing rigidly in place as they struggled to move. The woman who had attacked him first seemed to be least affected, snarling as she slowly made her way toward Lydia with black eyes glaring furiously. That was when Scott realised that Lydia was speaking, her voice a soft but steady chant in the background.

" _Ergo draco maledicte, et omnis legio diabolica,_ " she was saying, and as one the attackers crashed to their knees, heads wrenching backwards as though pulled by an invisible force. Even the woman advancing on Lydia stopped in her tracks, seemingly unable to move.

A few seconds later, Scott's eyes widened in surprise. The attackers' mouths opened, and columns of thick black smoke poured out, tracing their way upward and blotting out the stars before vanishing into the night.

Lydia stopped speaking, and a heavy silence hung throughout the clearing. Isaac was sitting on the ground clutching a wound in his arm even as it knit back together, Malia was drenched in blood and Kira still had her sword raised defensively before her. Parrish, for some reason, was covered in soot, and his shirt appeared seared at the edges. Everyone, however, was staring at Lydia with wide eyes.

Isaac was the first to break the silence. "What the hell was that?"

Lydia turned, and Scott realised that she was trembling, her heart racing in her chest and her green eyes wide in the moonlight. "An exorcism," she replied. Her voice was threaded with adrenaline even as she stared at the group in disbelief. "Didn't any of you memorise the one that Argent gave us?"

Scott shifted his weight guiltily, remembering the piece of paper languishing in his drawer. He felt slightly better when a glance around at his friends made it clear that no one else had read it either. Thank god for Lydia and her gift for learning.

Thankfully, Kira spoke up to change the topic back to the matter at hand. "Demons?" she asked, voice shaky. "Well, I guess we at least know what we're dealing with. So, successful mission, right?"

Malia let out a thin laugh and gave Kira a one-armed squeeze in response, and Scott released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. They were all alive, and now they at least had an idea of what they were up against.

His gaze settled on the pale, bloody bodies scattered on the ground, and Scott's mouth tightened. Successful mission, sure, but this was only one battle. Somehow, he had a feeling that they were teetering on the edge of war.

* * *

It was quiet in Bobby's house, and Dean strained to make out the odd grunt and grumble from the kitchen as he shrugged off his jacket. When he had first gone outside, Bobby, Sam and Dave had all been peering intently at a computer screen, and Dean had left them to it with a shrug. Now, the Impala was gleaming, tyres pumped and oil refilled, and he felt somewhat more equipped to deal with whatever the brains trust had in store for him.

Edging his way around a pile of books, he manoeuvred into the kitchen and raised his eyebrows at the scene before him. Bobby was sitting at one end of the table, nose buried in a book as thick as his arm, jotting notes down on a pad resting near his elbow. Next to him was Sam, scrolling rapidly through a search engine and pausing only long enough to click open tabs before continuing on. Dave was seated at the opposite end of the table, eyes racing back and forth across the laptop screen before him, attention completely consumed by whatever he was reading.

Research, great. Suddenly regretting his decision to return to the house so soon, Dean considered volunteering for a supply run, but as he turned to leave his boot squeaked against the floor and he felt three pairs of eyes immediately fix upon his back. They'd spotted him, goddamnit.

"Dean, come see this," Sam said, and Dean took a moment to sigh as his escape route vanished before giving in and circling the table to lean over Sam's shoulder. Sam clicked closed the browser window, revealing what looked suspiciously like a weather map behind it. "One of Bobby's contacts managed to recreate Ash's old program. Remember the one he made to track weather patterns for us?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, intrigued despite himself. "He used it to track Azazel, of course I remember. But with all the demon activity around these days, I would have thought it would be useless."

Sam nodded in agreement. "I thought the same thing, and in a way we're right. There's freak storms all over the place. But this, this is interesting." He tapped a few letters on the keyboard, and suddenly the map became a sea of yellow and orange, with a few odd red and green areas. He pointed out the smaller areas as he continued. "There are some areas in the country that are relatively unaffected; they're showing up as green. These red areas, they're showing high amounts of unusual weather patterns in the last few months."

Dean couldn't stop his eyes from widening, impressed. "So what you're saying is, there's likely to be more demonic activity in these spots."

Sam cocked an eyebrow in response, a small smile appearing on his face. "How much do you want to bet Abaddon's in one of these areas?"

Dean leaned past Sam, studying the screen more closely. "How many of these areas are there? Five, six?"

"Six," Dave confirmed from the other end of the table, eyes returned to his screen. "They're not particularly small regions, so I'm trying to research towns in the areas, seeing if there's any unusual news reports around there recently."

"Sounds like a great idea," Dean replied, straightening up and bringing his hands together firmly. "I feel like this effort should be supported with nourishment. Anyone want anything from the shops?"

There was a snort behind him, and Bobby finally looked up from his book. "Not a chance, boy," he said, and pulled out the chair beside him. "There's an extra laptop in the study, get to it."

Dean sighed internally, but didn't complain as he wandered into the disaster of a living room and started hunting for the laptop. Research meant they were getting somewhere, and that meant they would soon be on the road. With any luck, he'd have Abaddon's head on a plate before the week was out.


	8. Close Encounters

**Chapter 8 – Close Encounters**

It had been four days of researching towns, and they had finally managed to create something of a shortlist. Bobby had produced a whiteboard from somewhere, and Dave had spent the last half-hour scribbling furiously on it, shutting out the sounds of the others shuffling behind him and becoming lost inside his own head. This was how he worked best, he had found, being able to write down his ideas and visualise them graphically before him.

Recapping his pen, he stood back and examined the board before him. The tiny red dots on Sam's monitor had encompassed a surprisingly large number of towns, and it had been half a day before he managed to create a system of filtering them into possible, likely and unlikely locations of demonic activity. After that had come more research, more filtering, and it had all come down to this largely incomprehensible board in front of him. His eyes flitted over the different sections, and he felt a small swell of satisfaction. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

Dave jumped as he felt a warm figure move beside him, and his neck whipped around to find Dean standing at his shoulder. "Relax, kid," Dean said with a smirk, before raising his left hand. He was holding a beer, and Dave hesitated for a minute before shrugging and accepting the bottle. One of the things he had come to appreciate about the Winchester brothers – they weren't exactly strict on underage drinking. For the last four nights, when his brain felt woollen after hours of staring a screen, Sam and Dean had taken him on an adventure of discovery, and so he now knew that beer was tasty and made him happy, scotch burned like hell and made him way too tipsy very quickly, and harder spirits were really fun for a while, but made for a bad morning after.

Taking a swig of his beer and ignoring Bobby's long-suffering look from the corner, Dave let out a groan of satisfaction and tilted the neck of the bottle at his board. "So, I think I've narrowed it down a little," he said.

"Thank god," Sam said vehemently, slamming his laptop closed from where he sat at the table. "If I have to read one more paper about how someone tragically overcooked a pie in a fifty-person town in Texas, I might go on a murderous rampage myself." He stood from his chair, stretching his legs, before ambling to the fridge to retrieve two more bottles of beer for himself and Bobby. He circled around to where Dave was standing and rested against the table. "Go ahead, show us what you've got."

Dave considered his board, before pointing out the different sections. "So, the way I see it, we've got six major contenders. These are towns that are situated in areas of high storm activity, that also have a history of weird and wonderful happenings.

"So first up we have Chicago. Now I'm hoping it's a dead end because there's way too many places to hide there, but I couldn't cross it off, unfortunately. There's one area in particular that seems to have an unusually high number of disappearances, trauma, and freak natural deaths. It's on the map, here." He indicated to a print-out of Google maps that he had stuck onto the board with Blu-Tac.

Dean shifted beside him, eyeing the map with a strange expression on his face. "Actually, I don't think that's it," he said cryptically.

Dave stared at him. "What?" he asked, frustrated. "Why?"

Strangely enough, Dean seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing at Bobby before replying. "Because I know that area. I've been there before. There's a pizza shop there that is a personal favourite of Death's, so dollars to doughnuts he's the cause of all the omens going on."

Dave blinked once, then rubbed his ear with his hand furiously. He turned the words over in his head but, no, they still sounded the same. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that Death, the Horseman of the Apocalypse, is a fan of a pizza shop in Chicago?"

Dean nodded, mouth twitching slightly, and Dave sighed. "Yeah, you're going to have tell me the full story one day, okay?"

Turning back to his board, Dave drew a cross through the Chicago corner and turned to the next section. "The other five options are small towns that you've probably not heard of. They all seem to have a strange number of disappearances, deaths and other happenings in them that made them stand out from the rest. The ones in red are those that have had disappearances, and the ones in blue have had unusual deaths. The numbers next to them indicate their order of likelihood of being Abaddon's location.

"Number one on our list is Halliday, Arizona. There's been a run of recent disappearances in the town that seem to have started around four months ago, which would fit with Abaddon's escape. There's been six disappearances so far, men and women aged thirty to sixty, and they've all gone missing from their own homes with the doors locked. There's definitely something strange going on there."

Dave noted with satisfaction that Sam was nodding in agreement, and Dean was looking intrigued. Bobby, however, seemed distracted, eyes focussed on a different section on a board and a frown on his face. Following his line of sight, Dave figured he was reading the corner on a small town in California.

"Beacon Hills?" Dave asked, raising an eyebrow at Bobby. "What about it?"

It took a few seconds for Bobby to tear his gaze away from the board, and when he met Dave's eyes he didn't answer his question. Instead, he asked, "What have you found out about it?"

Glancing at the board, Dave frowned. "Honestly? I don't think it's a likely contender. I put it up on the board because it's in the right area and there's been a lot of strange things happening in that town, but the timeframe doesn't fit. The deaths and disappearances in that town has skyrocketed over the last two years, not just the last couple of months."

"Humour me," Bobby said, and Dave wracked his brain to collect the details before responding.

"Okay, so for all intents and purposes, Beacon Hills was a normal town until a few years ago: the occasional disaster or tragedy, but otherwise very quiet. Then there was a string of attacks back in 2011, which were initially thought to be animal attacks but ended up being attributed to a serial killer. She was killed by one of her would-be victims before she could be arrested. A few months later, five people in their mid-twenties were all killed by a psychotic teenager within a couple of weeks, and that's where this gets interesting. One serial killer in a small town I could buy, but two? It seems a bit much.

"From then on, it gets even weirder. Over the next year and a half there's so many deaths and disappearances that I gave up on getting through the list of them before I even got to halfway. The list includes not just murders, but no less than two different massacres at the hospital, and a bomb being set off in the police station."

Sam's eyes had widened as Dave spoke, and he exchanged a glance with Dean. "How have we not heard of this place?" he wondered aloud.

"My guess would be that someone's covering it up," Dave answered. "There's nothing about any of this in national newspapers, which is saying something considering we're talking domestic terrorism here. I only found this out by digging through local papers. There's someone powerful out there who's clearly intent on keeping things quiet."

Bobby grunted, and three faces turned to him in confusion. "That'll be the Argents," he explained. Apparently realising that that had not cleared anything up, he continued. "There are some hunters that don't mix well with others, and the Argent family is one of them. They've been in the game for centuries, and they've claimed that part of California as their territory, which is why your Dad never went there, and why I never sent you there."

"A whole family of Gordon Walkers, then?" Dean asked, and Bobby nodded agreement. "Great, sounds fun. Dave's right, though, interesting though this is, it doesn't answer our question of where Abaddon is. Whatever is going on in that town doesn't fit the timeframe."

"Ordinarily I would agree with you," Bobby said. "But I got an interesting call a little while back. A hunter by the name of Chris Argent has been digging around, asking for information about demons and especially about angels. Seems as though he's had a few run-ins with them recently, and if I had to make a bet, I'd say he's calling from a small town in California."

There was a moment of silence, and Dave realised that Dean was positively thrumming with excitement beside him. "Alright then," Dean said brightly, decisively setting down his beer. "Who want to go catch some sun, kill a bitch, and maybe stop by the beach on the way home?"

Sam's face brightened in response, and Bobby rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Dave managed a weak, half-hearted smile, then turned his face away before anyone noticed.

He had been debating leaving Beacon Hills off his list altogether, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. Still, he'd been hoping that one of the other towns would be a more likely candidate.

He didn't think anyone else had noticed, but there was one point during his research where his breath had caught and his heart started racing, and he stared in shock at his screen as a picture of himself stared back. Then he had determinedly hit the back button, grateful that the headline had left out the person's name, and skipped right past any future missing persons articles.

The opportunity to find out who he had been was at his fingertips, and the thought of it made Dave feel sick to his stomach. So he pressed his lips closed, and pushed the photo to the back of his mind. They had work to do.

* * *

The Impala's engine grumbled comfortingly as Dean steadily turned the corner. "There it is," Sam said, and sure enough there was a car parked beside a wooden sign proudly proclaiming _Beacon Hills Preserve_ , and a man leaning against the car was watching their approach, radiating disapproval.

"Oh, this looks like fun," Dean muttered under his breath, before pulling up beside the man and killing his engine. Bobby's truck sidled in on the other side, and Dean paused as he opened the door to give Bobby a chance to climb out and join them in meeting the newcomer.

The man was tall, lean, and younger the Dean had expected. He was frowning in their general direction, and although he appeared relaxed from a distance he was unexpectedly tense on closer inspection. Apparently Bobby was right, these hunters don't work well with others.

Dean hung back, allowing Bobby to lead the conversation.

"Chris Argent?" Bobby questioned, offering a hand.

The man looked at Bobby's hand then at his face, but didn't take it. Instead, his frown deepened. "I take it you're Bobby Singer," he said. Without waiting for a response, he continued. "I told you not to come. We can take care of this ourselves."

"Yeah, I don't think so," Dean said. Okay, so maybe hanging back wasn't his strong point.

Ignoring Bobby's glare, he carried on, figuring the damage was already done. "Look, you work alone. I get it. But Abaddon is a powerful mother and she wants us dead, so we're not going anywhere until we're sure she's in the ground."

"I promise, we'll be out of town the minute she's gone," Sam spoke up, forever the peacemaker. He turned on his puppy dog eyes, and Dean smiled internally. Good old Sam and his puppy dog eyes, they'd never lost yet.

"Not good enough," Argent said and, damn, apparently Dean had underestimated him. "You want proof, fine, I'll send her body your way. But I don't want you here."

Bobby grunted before taking a half step forward. "Look, Chris," he said, giving up on niceties. "I've been staying out of your way long enough. There's some strange shit going down in this town, and for years I've been willing to look the other way. If I wanted to expose whatever it is you're hiding, I promise you I would have done it long ago.

"We're here for Abaddon, and that's all. Now you know as well as I do that demons aren't your strong point, so stop shooting your mouth off about how you're going to kill Abaddon and let us help you. We'll be on our way as soon as she's down for the count."

Argent stared at him for a moment, clearly conflicted. Something seemed to sink in, however, and he sighed, losing the frown. "Alright," Argent said, before snapping his mouth closed, eyes fixed on the road behind them.

There was a faint grumble of an engine behind them and Dean turned, surprised, hand flying to his jeans and closing around his gun. He tensed, eyes on the bend as the noise increased, and finally a car appeared around the corner. Recognising the gold souped-up Mark V, Dean huffed a sigh of relief and relaxed, smiling a little as the atrocity of a car finally came to a stop behind the Impala.

"Bout time you got here," Dean jibed, grinning as the man emerged from the front seat. The trench coat would be unseasonably warm for any human, but Castiel didn't seem bothered as he approached the group, staring at Dean with wide eyes.

"I was in Florida when you called," Castiel said, serious as ever. "I assure you I drove day and night to be here."

"I know you did, Cas," Dean replied gently. Sometimes he forgot that ribbing went right over Cas' head, other times he remembered very well but couldn't resist. Cas' grave approach to social pleasantries was always amusing.

Argent cleared his throat and man, he did _not_ sound happy. "And this is?"

Bobby made the introductions quickly, before Dean could cause any more friction. "Chris, this is Cas. He's a good friend, he's helped us out many times before, and I trust him. I didn't mention him to you earlier because I didn't think he'd make it here."

Argent seemed to consider this for a moment, before letting out a small noise of disapproval, eyeing Bobby unhappily. "Your reputation precedes you, Singer, otherwise I'd be telling you all to pack up and leave right now." Dean narrowed his eyes at him, but Argent continued before he had a chance to protest. "As it happens, you're a friend of a friend and I've been told that you're good people. So I'll help you out, but I want your word that as soon as Abaddon's dead, you're out of here. All of you."

Bobby inclined his head in agreement, and Argent gave them all a once-over, as though on the verge of changing his mind, before seeming to realise that he wasn't going to win this one. He turned back to his car, leaning halfway into the back seat before pulling back with a shotgun in hand. "First thing's first," he said, "I think I know why she's here."


	9. And Sometimes When You're On

**Chapter 9 – And Sometimes When You're On**

Dean watched as Sam typed out a quick text message to Dave one-handed, Ruby's knife still gripped in his right. Argent had been a font of information, and with any luck Dave would be able to find something about this Nemeton in the pile of Bobby's books that he had insisted on bringing with him.

Dean had been surprised when Dave had so readily agreed to stay behind at the motel, only putting up a token protest. Maybe the kid finally realised what he was getting into, and that a few weeks of target practice made him no match for a seasoned demon. Still, Dean had a feeling that there was something more going on. Dave struck him as a brash kid who would normally place himself right in the middle of the action, fighting skills or not, and something wasn't right about his recalcitrant attitude to this mission. Once they were back on the road, he would have to get to the bottom of it.

Because apparently, Dean realised with a sinking stomach, the kid was part of the team now. Over the last few days he had spent enough time with him to develop a definite protective streak, and he now knew why Bobby had gotten himself so involved in Dave's life. There was something about the kid that screamed trouble, and maybe that was why Dean felt such a kinship with him. Just as Dean could never give up the hunt, he was certain that this kid would be drawn back to the supernatural no matter how much it hurt him.

In fact, he was pretty sure that Dave had already been drawn back once. Dean was no doctor, but Dave's Jason Bourne story didn't sit right with him. Surely amnesia like that just doesn't exist outside of fiction and monsters, and if the kid had managed to get involved with this world not once but twice, then Dean was certain that turning him away now wouldn't stop him at all. At least Dave wasn't trying to find out what had happened to him before his memory loss. Whatever had happened to him – ghosts, demons, goddamn fairies – in Dean's experience, it was a memory best left buried.

There was a loud crack and Dean bit back a curse as he was jolted back to the present. He raised his foot from the stick he had just snapped in two, and noticed Bobby cocking an eyebrow at him. Oops. Apparently he had been caught up in his own thoughts on the job, never a good sign.

Giving himself a shake, Dean turned his attention back to the path they were taking through the woods. They'd been walking for a good half hour now, and there was still no sign of the Nemeton. Argent had said it was difficult to find, but with any luck the demons would lead them right to it.

Any plan that involved attracting enough demons to find their actual target was a bad one, in Dean's opinion, but then again it probably wasn't the worst one he'd ever gone along with. Hell, at least they actually had a plan, rather than a wing and a prayer.

Cas stiffened beside him and Dean immediately halted in response, gripping his angel blade tightly, senses heightened as adrenaline flooded his veins. He was peripherally aware that Sam had stopped in sync with him, Argent and Bobby following suit, and he moved his attention to the woods surrounding them. There was movement beyond the tree line, and he could hear a soft whisper of leaves rustling as faint shadows darted just beyond view. Glancing at the others, he indicated what he had heard, and saw four nods of understanding as everyone readied their weapons and instinctively moved back-to-back, covering all sides.

For almost thirty seconds, there was nothing. Cas was on Dean's right, Sam on his left, and he could hear their harsh breaths punctuating the silence as they shifted slightly, preparing themselves. Beyond that, a faint breeze stirred the treetops, before fading away. A breath, and the world seemed to still.

The moment was broken by a shout, and suddenly there were figures appearing amongst the trees, men and women and, god help him, even a couple of kids. Dean counted ten, and felt his heart freeze. Ten on his side, who knew how many in total. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip on his blade, snarling at them.

"Come on!" Dean roared, voice laced with fury.

There was a pause, an infinitesimal second dragged out to eternity, and then they were racing toward him, a sea of black eyes and twisted faces.

* * *

Bobby smashed the butt of his shotgun into the face of the man rushing him, before swinging it around and firing two shots into the head of a gaunt woman wrestling with Sam. Her neck snapped backward as flesh burst from her head, and Bobby didn't stop to watch her fall before turning back to the man at his feet and squeezing off a third shot between his eyes at point-blank range.

Skull exploded at his feet and Bobby didn't hesitate, noticing two more demons racing toward him. He swapped out his shotgun for a long knife embedded with salt, and readied himself for the onslaught. Swinging wide, he cut deep into the throat of the demon on his left and ducked to avoid a fist from the man on his right.

From his crouched position, Bobby thrust forward with the knife, feeling it slice cleanly into the man's abdomen, and jerked it upward before pulling back. The man screamed as the wound gaped open, intestines sliding forward and thick red blood pouring on to the ground, and Bobby took advantage of his distraction to reload his shotgun and fire a round directly into his head.

The man collapsed to the ground, but Bobby was already on the move. A demon was angling for Dean, and Bobby swung the butt of his shotgun into his head and shouted a warning. The man stumbled sideways, but Bobby lost track of him as a movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye.

Spinning, Bobby flinched as he narrowly avoided a hit from a demon who had crept up on his flank. The man was tall but fast, and his jaw was tight with fury as he corrected from his punch.

Grabbing his knife, Bobby noticed the man's muscles bunching for a leap and tried to dodge to the side. He wasn't fast enough, though, and the man crashed into him, sending both of them to the ground.

His back hit the dirt with a burst of pain, and Bobby felt the air rush out of his lungs as the demon landed on top of him. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the pain out of his mind, focussing instead on his right hand. Bobby tightened his grip on his knife and thrust his arm upward, burying the tip into the soft flesh under the man's jaw.

The man yelled and blood soaked into Bobby's sleeve, but it was no good – the demon held on stubbornly, raising his hand to Bobby's wrist and squeezing with a painfully tight grip. Bobby's shoulder screamed in pain as his arm was twisted unnaturally, and he blinked tears out of his eyes to see the knife withdrawing from the man's face, the wound knitting itself before his eyes.

From his position, Bobby couldn't see his knife, but agony burned in his arm as the demon continued to manipulate it, forcing his hand around so that the knife was angled toward Bobby's abdomen. Eyes widening with fear, Bobby realised what was going to happen, and he twisted furiously as his arm closed in on his belly. It was only inches away when the weight suddenly vanished, Bobby's eyes flicked upward in surprised.

Castiel was standing over them with a snarl, one hand gripping the demon's shoulder tightly. In one swift move, he pulled back, tearing the man away from Bobby and throwing him mercilessly onto the ground.

Cas' expression was fierce as he knelt beside the man, reaching out a hand to bathe the his head in a golden light. A tortured scream rang out, and then suddenly cut off as the light faded, and Bobby's limbs flooded with relief.

Taking a deep breath, Bobby forced himself back onto his feet. "Thanks Cas," he started, but the angel didn't hear him, already disappearing back into the fray to rip two demons away from Argent as the hunter grappled with a third.

Realising he had a moment to breathe, Bobby surveyed the clearing. Surrounding him was a battlefield; blood soaked the leaves on the ground, and dead and mutilated bodies scattered throughout the field. Even so, it was clear the hunters were losing. The grass was crawling with demons, they were outnumbered three to one, and even with Cas on their side they were outgunned.

A noise distracted him, and Bobby glanced over his shoulder to see Abaddon emerging from the tree line, smirking at the scene before her. She had her eyes on Dean and Bobby felt a stab of fear, before he steeled himself firmly. They'd beaten worse odds before, they could pull another miracle out of their asses if they had to.

"Dean, watch out!" Bobby shouted in warning, before raising his shotgun and starting toward Abaddon. Her green eyes flicked toward him and he pulled the trigger, but the sound of the shot was obscured by a deafening roar.

Startled, Bobby spun on his heel and angled his shotgun outward, toward the sound. He made out a glimpse of movement through the trees, and that was his only warning before a half dozen figures darted out into the field, and suddenly everything devolved into utter chaos.

* * *

There were three demons wrestling with a giant of a man, and Scott couldn't help but be impressed as he watched from beyond the tree line. The man – all four of the strangers, for that matter – was putting up a hell of a fight, and Scott wondered if Argent had been wrong about their humanity. At the very least, the man in the trench coat was definitely something else, apparently able to destroy demons with just the touch of a hand. It made him nervous, but at the same time more determined to help them. If they were allies with one non-human, then maybe they would be able to accept that a werewolf pack could exist without causing harm.

Liam shifted nervously beside him, and Scott eyed him. "It's okay if you want to go back," Scott said gently. Out of everyone, Scott felt most guilty about Liam. He had been through hell and back since he was first bitten, and Scott knew that he had suffered nightmares after the Beserkers. Now, he looked positively terrified as he watched this disaster unfold before them, and Scott couldn't blame him if he was having second thoughts.

The point was moot, though, as Liam shook his head and set his jaw. "No, I'm helping," he said, voice threaded with determination.

"None of us are helping right now," Malia pointed out, gritting her teeth. Scott knew she was itching to go out there and fight, but he hesitated. If he was wrong about these people, he could get them all killed.

Scott looked to Lydia, who seemed to understand his conflict. She grimaced before sidling closer to him and speaking in a whisper. "I know we're only here as backup, but I think it's time. They've been putting up a good fight, but the demons keep coming and they're starting to tire. Don't forget Argent's out there, too, Scott. I think it's worth the risk."

Scott held her gaze for a moment, but she didn't waver. Alright then.

Focussing, Scott felt his features shift as his fangs dropped down and claws appeared, and noticed that Malia and Liam were following his cue. Beside him, Kira had her sword in hand, ready to go. "Let's do this," he said thickly.

Scott roared, and as one the pack surged into the clearing. Scott led the way, focussing on a demon furiously attacking the big guy. His legs drew up, and in one smooth movement Scott leaped through the air, latching onto the demon as his feet hit the ground and using his momentum to rip him away from the hunter. The man flew to his right and Scott didn't stop to watch him hit the ground, instead darting to his left where a woman was bearing down on Argent with relentless blows.

Growling, Scott dug his claws into her sides, pulling backwards. Argent took advantage of the increased room to lash forward and bury a knife drenched in salt into her chest, and the woman threw her head back and screamed.

Scott shifted his weight, ready to throw her aside, but a an iron-strong arm suddenly wrapped itself around his neck as another snaked around his upper arms, and instead he found himself stumbling backwards and lost his grip on her altogether.

He was being held against a hard chest, and Scott realised with surprise that he could barely move against the arms binding him. He struggled, but they didn't give an inch. Instead, the arm around his neck tightened even more, crushing his windpipe with a bruising force.

Scott's eyes widened and he gagged, heart pounding against his chest. He felt the beginnings of panic stir within him as his throat burned and he gasped for breath, and he was so caught up with fighting for air that the almost didn't notice the cool hand creeping up to rest against his jawline.

There was something familiar about the stance – a buried memory from some action movie he had once watched with Stiles at two in the morning – and suddenly Scott knew exactly what the man was about to do.

The man's arm bunched and as his hand tightened on Scott's jaw, preparing to twist, Scott gritted his teeth. With a grunt, Scott channelled his energy into his left arm and thrust it backwards as hard as he could. There was a shout from behind him and pain exploded in Scott's elbow, but for a second the arm around his neck loosened just a fraction.

It was all Scott needed. Twisting, he caught sight of the man's thigh behind him and pushed, burying his claws into soft flesh. He flexed his fingers, slicing upwards, and tore the leg open in a clean line from knee to groin, setting his jaw as the man cried out in his ear. For a moment, he paused, resting his hands above the man's pulse point, then there was a slight give as his claws buried deeper. A sickening tearing sound reached his ears and dark red blood spurted from the wound, soaking Scott's arm within seconds.

The arms holding him vanished as the man screamed, falling to the ground and desperately pushing on his gushing wound. Scott heaved a deep breath, feeling slightly dizzy, and managed to tear his eyes away from the gruesome sight.

The clearing was a flurry of motion; a mess of gunshots, claws and shouts. Still, Scott realised with a jolt of surprise, the tide was definitely turning. The hunters seemed to have regained their footing, fighting in a well-practiced dance and watching each other's backs. The pack was a sea of writhing energy; kicks, punches, growls and snarls, and for every hit they received they returned threefold.

As Scott watched, something in the demons seemed to break. Some of them scattered in a desperate run, others continued to fight with movements that were increasingly frantic, all their taunts and confidence forgotten. He released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and a motion to his right drew his attention. Turning, Scott spotted the red-headed demon from earlier, who had been hanging back at the edge of the clearing throughout the entire battle.

She wasn't alone, Scott realised with a rush of adrenaline. One of the hunters was held before her, pressed up against a tree as she pushed her way into his personal space. Her hands were flexing on his chest and her lips were curled in a snarl, clearly taunting him. Scott couldn't see the hunter's face, but his limbs were twisting uselessly as he fought to escape.

Scott snarled and picked his way through the fight, aiming for the pair. No one else seemed to have noticed and Scott felt his heart rate pick up when he lost sight of them for a moment, but before he had a chance to panic he found himself on the edge of the field and the demon and the hunter were before him.

"I always did like this meatsuit," the demon hissed, red lips curving as she trailed a hand down the hunter's chest. "I think I'll take it after all."

The hunter's face twisted in disgust, but the demon's expression was pure ecstasy as she tilted back her head and closed her eyes, a tendril of black smoke escaping from her parted lips.

Scott took a shaky breath, steeling himself. Then, not letting himself think, he bunched his legs and pounced, slamming into the demon and sending both of them crashing to the ground.

Scott didn't pause, slashing and tearing at any of the demon's flesh he could find. The scent of blood was heavy in the air, and he pushed down against the nausea and the voice raging at the back of his mind, instead lashing out with his claws again, and again, and again.

It was a matter of seconds before Scott suddenly found himself flying backwards, slamming into a tree with a force that knocked the breath out of him. His head snapped backwards into the trunk, and his vision swam as a splitting headache erupted.

Scott's head lolled and he groaned as his mind throbbed, his feet slowly coming into focus. When he realised what he was seeing, Scott felt a thread of panic thrum through him. Somehow, he was suspended against the tree, feet a good few inches from the ground. His arms were pressed into bark, and when he tried to crane his neck for a view of what was going on, his found he could only move his head a few inches to the side.

The demon appeared directly before him, snarling ferociously. Her face was carved with jagged wounds, and any doubts that Scott might have had about her demonic nature vanished at the hideous sight. "You thought you could defeat me, wolf?" she said softly.

She bared teeth at him, hissing. "You are an animal," she spat, "and you should be trembling before me."

She raised a hand, fingers crooked as though gripping a ball. Scott watched, eyes wide with confusion, and then she twisted her wrist decisively and suddenly Scott's world exploded with pain.

Scott screamed, neck arching backward as he writhed against the tree. There was a stabbing pain in his chest, tracking down his limbs until every part of him was on fire, and _holy_ _shit_ Scott had never known agony like this before.

His throat burned as he ran out of air, and Scott let his head drop, panting. From this angle, he could see his chest, and he fought against a wave of nausea at the sight. Four deep gashes were gaping open on his torso, revealing muscle and sinew beneath. Rivers of blood – dark, so dark it was almost black – were pouring down his front, drenching his jeans and forming a pool in the leaves at his feet. Dark spots danced across Scott's vision, and the world started spinning.

Soft fingers traced patterns on his jaw, and Scott looked up to see the demon standing inches before him, head tilted with curiosity as her mouth curved into a wicked smile. "That's better," she whispered.

Scott couldn't answer her, too distracted by the agony in his chest, struggling to control his breathing and steady his vision. He looked past the demon, and felt his heart still at the sight.

The hunter from before was on his feet, creeping toward them. The man side-stepped around the woman, and with one swift movement raised a revolver and pressed the cold barrel under her chin.

"This is for our grandfather, bitch," he said. Then he squeezed the trigger.

A deafening crack exploded throughout the clearing and the woman collapsed. The invisible binds holding Scott to the tree vanished and he fell, stumbling as his feet slipped in the blood-soaked ground, and reached one arm behind him to brace himself on the trunk.

"What was that?" Scott managed, eyes flicking between the hunter and the demon. She wasn't dead, clearly – he could still hear her heartbeat pounding frantically at his feet.

The hunter glanced at him before responding. "There's a devil's trap on the bullet. She's not dead, but she's not smoking out of that meatsuit any time soon, either."

With that, the hunter reached into his jacket and pulled out an honest-to-god machete. Feeling slightly sick, Scott took a half-step backward before catching himself. "Wait!" he protested, but before he could react the hunter was moving, arm swinging in a decisive arc.

Scott could hear every tear and every crack as the machete sliced through the woman's neck in a burst of blood, burying itself in the ground as her flesh split clean in two.

Scott's stomach roiled, and acid burned in his throat. Swallowing once, twice, he heaved several deep breaths until his stomach finally settled.

When he came back to himself, Scott realised that the air was heavy with an unnatural silence. He tore his eyes away from the desecrated body before him to check on his friends.

Somehow, during the chaos, the remaining demons had fled. Isaac was sitting on the ground, panting heavily and staring at Scott in shock even as he held a makeshift bandage to a deep gauge on Kira's arm. Kira otherwise seemed okay, managing a small twitch of the lips as she caught Scott's eye. Beside her, Malia stood tall, covered in blood and mud and god knows what else, eyes shining blue as the bloodlust slowly dwindled.

On the other side of the clearing, the hunters were still on their feet, albeit covered in cuts and bruises. The tall man in particular seemed to have the beginning of a black eye, and the older man was nursing a swollen and bloody nose, but none of them seemed bothered by it at all. Liam stood near them, blood soaking his hands as several wounds on his arms slowly knitted together.

Off to the side, Scott took note of Parrish, covered in soot and resting a gentle hand on Lydia's shoulder. She was trembling slightly, blood slowly leaking from several shallow cuts and bruises but apparently otherwise miraculously unhurt.

They were all okay.

The thought resonated in Scott's head, and his legs wobbled as he was flooded with relief. They were all alive. Somehow, they had made it through this one.

He felt the corners of his mouth start to pull up in a small smile, and turned to introduce himself to the hunter standing next to him. The sight before him made him freeze, and the words died on his lips.

Scott was staring down the barrel of a gun, held steadily in the hands of the hunter and pointed directly between Scott's eyes.

"Now," the hunter said, "What the hell are you?"


	10. Getting To Know You

**Chapter 10** **– Getting to Know You**

The boy froze as Dean tightened his grip on his Colt, aiming directly at the kid's head.

On the one hand, Dean knew it was kind of a stupid move, placing six monsters at his back to focus on the one in front, but he had the kid in point-blank range and he had a feeling that they wouldn't risk hurting him. The kid himself was in no condition to fight back, deep grooves in his chest still bleeding sluggishly and barely able to stand without support.

Still, Dean indicated with the tip of his gun for the boy to move, and stepped to the side as he complied so that he could see the entire field. As he'd suspected, the rest of the local monster population were on their feet, glaring at him with a startling array of brightly coloured eyes and baring impressive sets of teeth and claws in his direction.

Sam, Bobby and Cas had spread out around the edge of the field, aiming their own weapons at the kids in the centre. Sam, Dean noticed, looked distinctly uncomfortable, whether it was about threatening their allies from mere moments ago or the fact that most of the monsters were still well under the voting age, Dean wasn't sure. Well, tough. Dean wasn't happy about it either, but they needed to know what they were dealing with here.

"Still waiting on an answer, kid," Dean prompted.

The boy in front of him wavered, face unnaturally pale, and didn't reply.

Okay then. Dean readied himself, before voicing his thoughts aloud. "Here's the problem," he said. "You look like a werewolf, but you don't fit the behaviour. Every other werewolf I've met has only been able to change on the full moon, and then they're uncontrollable, feral animals until they change back to human.

"You, on the other hand, seem to be able to change at will, and you're not trying to rip me apart right now which makes me wonder what you could be instead. Are you a variant, did Eve make you? Or are you something entirely different?"

The kid shook his head slowly, frowning in confusion. "I don't know what werewolves you've met, and I don't know who Eve is, but you have it all wrong," he said finally.

Movement caught Dean's eye, and he glanced up to see Argent take a step forward, corners of his mouth pulled tight. "Omegas," he said urgently. "Dean, you've only met omegas before."

"What?" Dean asked, and heard Sam's voice chorus with him. They exchanged glances, and Sam shrugged, apparently just as lost as he was.

"Omegas are werewolves without packs," Argent explained. "If they ever had control of their wolf forms, they lose it quickly, and you're right, they do become feral animals that are slaves to a full moon. But that's not the case here.

"Scott, all of these kids, they're a pack. They know what they're doing, they've learned to control the wolf. They're no more dangerous than a human who knows his way around a weapon." He paused a moment before finishing in a softer tone. "Dean, I swear to god, that kid in front of you has never killed anyone. All he's ever done is try to protect his family. I know for a fact you've done worse."

Dean's veins froze and his hand twitched, dangerously close to the trigger as he glared at Argent. Still, the words reached him and he hesitated, lowering the gun a fraction.

Bobby shifted, frowning at Argent. "No, that's not right," he argued. "We had a case a few years ago, an innocent girl who was bitten by a werewolf and was desperate not to hurt anybody."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam tense, taking a few harsh breaths and swallowing uncomfortably. Dean's heart ached for him. He didn't think Sam had ever really recovered from what happened to Madison.

"We tried a few things to try and cure her, but nothing worked," Bobby was saying. "During the night, she would lose all control, and people died. In the end, I called your father for advice. The Argents are werewolf experts, after all. He assured me that there was no cure, and no way for her to learn control. He told me that every werewolf turns feral, eventually."

There was a sharp intake of breath to his right, and Dean glanced over to see one of the girls, the one with the electric blue eyes, staring at the ground and breathing rapidly. She was trembling a little, and he suddenly wondered what the hell had happened to these kids, how much shit they had seen in so little time.

As he watched, the Asian girl beside her reached over and interlaced their fingers, giving her a reassuring squeeze. It seemed to work, and the blue-eyed girl looked up and managed a weak smile in her friend's direction. The light reflected off her eyes, and Dean realised with shock that she was blinking back tears.

Argent was speaking, and Dean turned his attention back to the conversation. "My father," Argent said in a gravelly voice, "was a sadistic bastard who killed for pleasure and hated every kind of creature that wasn't human. He would have said anything to rid the world of one more werewolf."

"That's true," the curly-haired werewolf said, speaking up for the first time. "He tried to kill me as soon as he found out I'd been bitten, before I even went through my first full moon. He didn't care that I hadn't hurt anyone, he just wanted me dead."

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam and Bobby, who caught his eye and lowered his weapon slightly. Argent's story was compelling, and none of them wanted to risk hurting innocent kids, but Dean still hesitated to drop his guard.

Instead, he turned to the one person that he trusted implicitly. "Cas?" Dean asked.

Cas squinted for a moment, concentrating, then nodded to Dean. "He's telling the truth," he said, and Dean released a rush of air and relaxed, lowering his gun to his side.

"Okay then," Dean said with relief, and watched as Sam and Bobby also lowered their weapons. Strangely enough, none of the monsters before him looked particularly comforted by that. The boy nearest to him was staring at him intently, as though trying to read his mind. Dean decided to make it a bit easier for him. "Look, we're not in the business of killing kids," he explained. "If things change and people start dying because of you, then we'll be back. But we're not going to kill you just because you had the misfortune to get yourself bitten."

The kid blinked a little, looking stunned. Dean was starting to get the impression that these kids hadn't come across too many reasonable hunters before, and he couldn't help but feel sorry for them. "I'm Dean," he said instead, offering a hand.

A long moment drew out, until finally the kid reached out his own hand and gripped Dean's firmly. "Scott," he said. Their eyes met and something seemed to click, the boy realising that Dean was being candid. As Dean watched, Scott managed a small smile and finally allowed himself to relax.

The moment was broken by the familiar beats of Back in Black, and Dean startled, releasing the kid's hand and fumbling for his phone. _Dave_ was blinking on the screen, so he tapped the green button and raised the phone to his ear.

"Hey," he said, and then cut off as a frantic voice made its way down the line.

"Dean? Oh thank god, I've been trying all three of your phones for ages, where the hell have you guys been?"

Dean blinked before responding. "Fighting off a small army of demons, are you okay?"

"Me? I'm fine. Just having a small panic attack imagining all the ways that you guys could have been killed in the time that that I was trying to reach you."

"Dave, calm down," Dean said, amused. "We're fine, you're fine, Abaddon's dead and we're on our way back."

"No, wait," Dave countered. "I think I found something."

Dean raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Go on."

"You know that Nemeton that Sam told me about? I think I know a way to destroy it."

* * *

It was surprisingly simple, in the end. From what Argent had told them, this giant tree stump had been the root – pardon the pun – of all the problems in the town. The young man who introduced himself as Parrish had been able to lead everyone right to it, and Dave had rattled off a series of instructions that made Dean's head spin, until he ordered him to slow the hell down and break it down into steps.

Dave had done so, and now the Nemeton was doused in holy oil mixed with salt and a type of plant that Argent for some reason had on him, and Dean stood at the sidelines as Cas slowly spoke the incantation that Dave had texted him. The phrases were a familiar disjointed Enochian, and the pressure in the air seemed to increase as Cas worked his way through the words.

There was an unnatural silence settled over the area, save for a soft high-pitched whine gradually building in the distance. As Dean listened, the whine grew louder and louder and as Cas finished speaking the sound suddenly expanded, becoming an ear-splitting scream. Dean flinched, desperately pressing his hands to his ears, and just made it before the air solidified around him. The pressure increased until his breath was pushed out his lungs, and suddenly Dean couldn't breathe.

The moment stretched to eternity, and Dean was trapped. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't hear beyond the high-pitched scream still echoing through the clearing. A wave of panic hit him, but he couldn't even struggle against the pressure holding him still.

Eyes fixed on the tree stump in front of him, Dean flinched internally when it suddenly burst into a wall of fire. Flames stretched up several feet, and the heat hit him even as his eyes watered from the smoke. He almost thought he saw a fly escaping from the wood, zooming upwards toward the tree tops, but a tongue of flame reached out toward it and it twisted, burning, before falling to the ground and out of sight.

He had no idea how long he stood there. His chest wasn't moving, but somehow he didn't need to breathe. The flames ate through the wood in front of him, and he had a moment of terror when he thought they might spread to the surrounding forest, but something kept them contained.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours, but eventually the fire burned low. As the last flame flickered out of existence, the scream suddenly cut off, giving way to a silence that was somehow even more deafening, and the pressure vanished.

Dean dropped to the ground as though someone had cut his strings, and heaved a blessed breath of air. It tasted of smoke still, and he coughed at the harsh scratch on the back of his throat, before taking a few more cautious breaths and finally allowing himself to take stock of the area around him.

Everyone seemed to be in much the same state as he was, with some people rubbing blood away from their ears and most people sitting on the ground in shock. The air was thick with smoke, and when he peered toward the Nemeton, all Dean could see was black. The entire stump was completely gone, all that was left of the ancient power was a pile of ash that was even as he watched being picked up by the breeze and scattered over the earth.

It was over.

Sam made his way over to Dean and helped him to his feet. He was covered in smoke and ash, but was in one piece, and Dean couldn't help a small smile. Abaddon was gone, and maybe they'd done some good for this town as well. All in all, he'd call that a good day.

* * *

It was a long trek back to the cars, and although Dean appreciated the werewolf escort he couldn't help but grumble internally at having to keep up the charade of being a big bad hunter. Really, all he wanted to do was sit down for a while, and the ground was looking rather inviting. Still, he dug deep and managed to find the energy to put one foot in front of the other in the resemblance of a straight line.

The woods seemed to go on forever, but eventually the trees started thinning, sunlight poking through, and Dean sighed with relief. Almost there.

Two more turns and the edge of the carpark came into view. Dean picked up the pace, bypassing Scott and Bobby to take the lead, eager to get back to the motel and wash off some of the smoke. However, when he emerged into the carpark he was greeted with the sight of nearly six foot of pale teenager lounging on the Impala's shiny hood.

Growling, Dean cupped a hand to his mouth. "Dave, you have three seconds to get your ass off of my baby before I shoot you in the head!"

Dave had the audacity to grin at him, but slid off the hood without complaint. "I drove all this way to see you after saving the day, and this is the thanks I get. Kids these days, I don't know," he quipped.

Dean snorted. "Yep, saved the day from the comfort of the couch. That's the way to do it."

Bobby had caught up with them, and as he stopped beside Dean he narrowed his eyes at Dave. "How _did_ you get here? You don't have a licence, or a car."

Dave managed an expression that vaguely resembled looking abashed. "I borrowed a car?" he offered.

"Borrowed?" Dean shook his head urgently at Dave, eyes wide, but Bobby looked back and forth between the two and aimed an honest-to-god disapproving Dad expression in Dave's direction.

"Uh, temporarily misappropriated?" Dave countered. Bobby's face darkened, so Dave changed tack, words tripping over each other in his haste. "Blame Dean, he's the one who taught me how to hotwire a car."

Dean raised his hands in forfeit as Bobby turned his stormy look on him. "Yeah, and that's the last thing I ever teach you. Thanks for that," he said sarcastically.

Bobby rolled his eyes and turned away with a grunt, so Dean took advantage of his distraction to throw a quick grin to Dave behind his back. "First try?" Dave nodded and Dean raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Not bad for a beginner." Dave's face lit up with a broad smile, and Dean couldn't help but laugh. Angels, demons, apocalypses; sometimes it was the little moments that made the fight worthwhile.

Walking around the Impala, Dean slipped a hand into his pocket and felt for his keys. "Alright, let's get going," he said. "Sam can take your stolen car back. Dave, you come with me; we'll grab some food on the way back to the motel and with luck we can be back on the road before nightfall."

"Sounds good," Sam replied, shouldering his bag and clapping Dave on the shoulder as he passed, heading toward the green Camaro parked behind Cas' monstrosity.

There was a choked sound from behind and Dean frowned, catching Dave's eye as they turned back in unison. He'd almost forgotten about the werewolf pack, who had been chatty during the walk back but had fallen silent during the entire exchange.

When he caught sight of them, Dean's eyes widened. Scott had looked pale before, but that didn't compare to his bloodless face now as his gaze fixed on Dave. Next to him, the red-haired girl – Lydia, he recalled – was wearing an expression of absolute shock, her green eyes wide and lips parted. The others were filed in beside them, standing stock still and staring at Dave with varying expressions of surprise.

Dean glanced at Dave, but he seemed utterly nonplussed. "Are you guys okay?" he asked hesitantly.

Scott took a half-step forward, and Dean noticed with confusion that his breathing was harsh and uneven.

"Stiles?" Scott asked, voice cracking.

Dave frowned at him. "What the hell is a Stiles?"


	11. To Be Or Not To Be

**Chapter 11 – To Be or Not To Be**

The teenagers were all staring at him, and Dave shifted uncomfortably. He had a feeling that the moment he had been dreading had finally arrived, and he had run into people who recognised him.

When he had been in hospital, a nurse who thought herself a comedian had left a DVD of the movie _Overboard_ by his bed. He had been bored enough to watch it, and right now all he could think of was the scene where the heroine set eyes on her husband for the first time since her accident, and all of her memories came rushing back.

This was nothing like that.

There were eight people who were all standing there looking at him as though he should know them, and for all Dave knew they might as well be blank faces on the street. There was no rush of memory, no tinge of familiarity – they were strangers, nothing more.

An olive-skinned boy took a half-step forward, and when he spoke his voice cracked on the word. "Stiles?" he asked.

Dave frowned, confused. "What the hell is a Stiles?"

He might as well have cussed a response, by the boy's reaction. His face crumpled, eyes wide as he swallowed. The boy looked broken, and Dave was torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to get the hell out of dodge before this turned into an episode of _This is Your Life._

The boy answered him before he could decide. "It's your name," he explained. "You don't...you don't remember?"

Dave shook his head, licking his lips nervously. He glanced at Dean, begging for rescue with his eyes, and thankfully Dean seemed to get the message.

"He doesn't remember anything," Dean explained in a firm tone, before jangling his keys pointedly. "And he's already decided that he doesn't want to, so there's nothing more to be done here. We're going."

He opened the driver's door decisively and Dave gratefully scurried back a couple of steps and reached for the passenger seat handle. His heart was pounding a little, and he suddenly wished he was back at Bobby's house, sinking into a couch with an ancient book and a bottle of beer.

The door opened, and Dave was about to climb inside when there was a rush of footsteps and a trembling hand on his arm. Dave froze, staring at the hand for a moment before raising his eyes to meet the gaze of the boy who had spoken before.

"Stiles – Dave – please," the boy said desperately, and Dave realised with shock that there were tears in his eyes. "We've been looking for you for months, I thought you were –" he broke off, swallowing, and when he spoke again his voice was small. "I missed you so much, I've been going crazy. And your dad – it's killing him. Please don't go."

Dave hesitated, and this time when he glanced over the roof of the Impala at Dean he was uncertain. Dean seemed to realise his trouble, and shrugged helplessly. "It's your call, Dave," he said gently. "Stay or go, or we can stay in town another night and you can have a think about it, up to you."

"I don't understand," one of the girls spoke up from several yards away. She was gorgeous, all long legs and short brown hair, and Dave almost wished they had met in better circumstances. "Why don't you want to remember?"

"Because," Dave said, then hesitated. "Look, I don't know you. I don't know who I used to be. But I do know that I spent weeks in hospital and needed two separate surgeries because at some point in my old life, someone stabbed me in the stomach. I know that in my old life, someone thought it was a good idea to just dump me at the front of a hospital in a strange town where I didn't know anyone, and then take off."

The strangers' expressions had transformed from shock to horror, but Dave powered on. Maybe they would get the message after all. "You guys are clearly mixed up in something bad, and whoever I used to be, I was in way over my head. I've been given a second chance, and I don't want to screw that up by chasing after something that was obviously more bad than good."

"You know, I was in a similar situation once," said the girl from earlier. Her eyes flickered to an electric blue, and Dave swore loudly as he stumbled backwards in shock.

"It's alright; she's a werewolf," Dean explained calmly.

Dave stared at him. "And you're okay with that?"

"So long as she's in control, which she apparently is, yes."

"Werewolves," Dave huffed. "Okay. Sure. Carry on."

"Actually," the girl continued, "I'm a werecoyote. And my name's Malia, by the way."

"Nice to meet you," Dave mumbled automatically. "What did you mean, you've been in a similar situation?"

Malia bit her lip and looked as though she was picking her words when she replied. "When I was eight, my mother and sister died in a car accident. I had an opportunity to run away and put my old life behind me, and I did. For eight years, I lived in the woods as a coyote."

Wait, what? Dave hadn't seen that coming. A curious itch was taking hold of him, and Dave opened his mouth to ask more before catching himself and closing it again. No, he didn't want to get involved with these people.

For the first time, though, Dave wavered, feeling a hint of doubt. When he had first woken up in the hospital and started watching news stories for lack of anything better to do, he had decided that he must have fallen in with the wrong crowd, been attacked by a gang of some sort. Now, though, he had to wonder.

The world was so much more than what he had thought, and maybe this wasn't his first brush with the supernatural. If so, the possibilities of what had happened to him were endless. Granted, something awful must have happened for him to end up in hospital, but he couldn't help but be slightly curious as to what that awful thing consisted of.

Morbid curiosity. Trainwrecks and news reports. Dave wondered sometimes if his mind was as fucked up in his past life as it was now.

Dragging his thoughts back to the present, Dave realised that Malia was still speaking. "You and Scott, you guys tracked me down and forced me to turn back to being human. I hated you for it, at first. I didn't want to have to face my dad or to deal with what had happened. But you helped me adjust, and eventually I realised that you have to take the bad with the good." She shrugged, looking slightly uncomfortable, and Dave wondered if it was normal for her to open up like this. He thought not. "Facing up to my past was the best thing I ever did."

"I'm sorry about your mum and sister," Dave said quietly. Malia managed a small smile. "But it's not the same thing. My memory's gone. It's not coming back. This Stiles guy, he's dead, and you can't expect me to just pretend to be him to make you feel better."

The boy before him opened his mouth, but before he could speak there was a soft clearing of a throat from behind him, and Dave turned. A man in a trench coat was standing there, and his blue eyes were radiating sadness. "Actually, I think I can help with that."

Dave blinked, confused, and Dean spoke up to fill the void. "Dave, this is Cas. Cas, Dave."

"Huh," Dave blurted out. "You're not what I expected. But, uh…good to meet you."

The man blinked wide blue eyes at him, and Dave internally berated himself for his awkwardness. He was saved as Castiel merely nodded at his response and picked up from where he had left off. "I have to confess something, though. I was the one who left you at the hospital after you were wounded."

Dave's mouth was open, he realised, and closed it with a snap. Anger and confusion swirled within him, and he couldn't bring himself to form words, instead letting Dean speak for him.

"Cas, what the hell?" Dean spluttered. "What happened?"

Castiel glanced a Dean before turning back to Dave, face solemn. "Several months ago, I caught word that there was a meeting of angels. I couldn't pass up such an opportunity to hear news of my brothers, but I was so far away – I drove day and night trying to make it in time."

"Cas," Dean said softly, brow creased in worry. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"You had bigger demons," Cas brushed off his concern. "And it didn't matter, in the end. I arrived too late. When I came upon the area where the meeting was supposed to be, the angels had been slaughtered, and the grass was covered in bodies."

He looked Dave square in the eye and spoke directly to him. "That's where I found you. You were one of the vessels left behind, and you were dying. At the time, I had no grace and couldn't heal you, so I did the best I could and brought you to hospital."

Dave's mind spun, and suddenly he really wanted to sit down. Resting his back against the Impala, he slid down until his bottom landed on the ground. He felt as though his world was caving in on him, there were entirely too many revelations happening for one day.

Apparently the day wasn't over, though, as Castiel wasn't finished. "Things have changed, though," he said. "I couldn't heal you then, but I can now. I can give you your memories back."

* * *

The door stood solid and closed in front of him and Dave gathered his courage, glancing at Bobby's supportive face out of the corner of his eye. After Castiel's offer, Dave had begged off for the afternoon, claiming a spitting headache and a need to think. The werewolves' faces had all twisted with horror, apparently convinced that he was going to run off on them, and for a moment Dave considered it. It would definitely be the easier choice.

The olive-skinned boy – Scott, Dean informed him later – had eventually let him go on the condition they met up later, and had given him this address hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper. Dave wasn't sure that he would have turned up, but that guy had a definite talent for puppy dog eyes that put Sam's to shame, and before he knew what he was doing he was giving his word that he would be there.

Which brought him to now, and Dave couldn't help but regret his decision a little. Even with Bobby, Dean and Sam at his side, not to mention Castiel, he couldn't help but be nervous. He had had a long few months to consider the many possibilities of how his old life could have gone wrong, and now the scenarios danced across his consciousness in a morbid parade.

Taking a deep breath, Dave raised his hand to knock, but the door slid open before he could. "Wow," he blurted out, taking in the spacious loft and wall of windows before him. "This place is amazing."

Scott raised an eyebrow, managing a half-smile in response. "I'll have to get that in writing. Derek will never believe me otherwise."

The sentence made absolutely no sense, but Dave let it slide as Scott gestured him inside, and he stepped inside the room, taking note of the rest of the pack who had fallen silent as his approach. Dean and Bobby had briefed him on who was who back at the motel, so he was relieved to find that he was able to identify them all without difficulty.

Isaac was the first to break the silence. "So, have you decided yet?" he asked bluntly.

"Not yet," Dave responded. Scott's face fell and Lydia looked away, swallowing hard as she focussed on a point on the wall. "There's one thing that I need to know first."

Dave took a deep breath, avoiding everyone's eyes. "Malia said earlier that I need to accept the bad stuff, and she's right. But I need to know that there's some good in there as well. I've done my research on this town, I know what kind of crap happens here. Is it all just murders and disappearances?"

He felt rather than saw Scott ready himself at his side, and when he glanced up he was surprised to see the Latino boy was smiling.

"No, there's good," he said softly. "Don't get me wrong, we've been through some stuff. But you've got your dad, and me, and at the end of the day that's always been enough.

"Your dad's amazing, Stiles, he really is," Scott said, and god help him but Dave wanted to believed him. "He's the town Sheriff and he's damn good at his job, but you always came first. He loves you, and he's been falling apart without you. The two of you are so freaking good together, I used to always be jealous of your relationship when we were kids."

Dean shifted behind him, and Dave knew what he was thinking. He didn't know the full story, but he didn't have to be an expert to realise just how important family was to the Winchester brothers.

Scott seemed to have found his momentum, though, and didn't pause before continuing. "And your family doesn't end with your dad. We might not be blood, but you're my brother, through and through. We've been friends since we were four, we've been through everything together. Hell, we even lived together for a while when we were kids."

"Wait, what?" Liam interrupted, staring at Scott. "Seriously? When was this?"

"Actually, I think I remember that," Lydia mused. "Sixth grade, right?"

"Sixth, seventh, and part of eighth," Scott confirmed. His eyes were distant, and his face lit up with a smile as he recalled the memory. "It was after my parents got divorced, when I finally made it back to Beacon Hills after kicking up enough of a stink that Dad gave back his custody rights. Mum and Stiles' dad were both shift workers, and neither of us were really old enough – or trustworthy enough – to be left home alone for long periods of time. The babysitting costs were crippling both of our families, so eventually Mum and the Sheriff figured something out. They arranged it so that they worked opposing shifts, and we would eat and sleep at whoever's house happened to have a parent home that night."

Kira raised her eyebrows, looking amused. "Your poor mum," she said. "The two of you together twenty-four hours a day? I can see her going completely insane."

Scott laughed in response. "Nah, she was fine. The only reason we stopped in the end was that Stiles' dad was promoted to Sheriff and his hours became more regular. Otherwise that arrangement would probably still be going on, to be honest."

To Dave's surprise, Scott almost sounded wistful, and a part of him ached. Whatever demons his past held, this relationship was clearly an important one to Scott, and he couldn't help but feel slightly jealous that he couldn't remember it.

"There's good in your life, Dave, and you bring so much good to everyone else's as well," Lydia spoke up from the corner, her green eyes shining with a warm light. "I never told you this before, but I still remember the first time we met. We were eight years old, and I had just moved to town. I was terrified that I wouldn't make any friends, because at my last school I had been badly bullied as a nerd. So I decided that I would pretend to be an airhead, so that people would like me."

Dave's eyes widened in surprise. Granted, he barely knew anything about Lydia, but she was beautiful, and gave off an air of poise and confidence. The idea of her being a victim of bullying was unfathomable. Still, she seemed sincere, and her lips twitched in a small smile as she continued her story. "You saw right through me, even back then. I don't think you had even heard of the concept of subtlety, but you managed to catch me when I was alone on the playground, and started spouting all sorts of nonsense about long division until I eventually cracked and started correcting you.

Scott snorted softly from the corner. "No, he definitely wasn't subtle at that age, and he didn't exactly get much better at it as we grew up," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. Dave frowned a little, eyeing him. There was a slight change in the mood of the room, and Dave couldn't quite place his finger on it. Where previously it had been fond reminiscing, there was now an edge of…was it grief?

Dave swallowed harshly. Of course it was grief. They had lost a friend of theirs, and it was his fault. He was keeping Stiles from them. But then again, didn't he have a right to exist as himself as well?

Lydia was still talking, and Dave dragged his focus back to her. "You started grinning when I started explaining the maths to you, and suddenly I realised that the whole conversation was a ploy to get me to admit that I knew more than I was letting on. I was so angry with you for seeing right through me that I didn't speak to you for the next eight years."

Lydia laughed, eyes gleaming. "That might had been the worst decision of my life. I was forced to take you to the sophomore formal – don't ask – and you were probably the most courteous date I ever had. That was the beginning of us becoming friends, and our friendship is what eventually caused me to drop the façade altogether. After all, if you could still like me even though I learn languages as a hobby, why should I have to hide that from everyone else? You gave me the confidence to be myself, and for that I'm forever grateful."

She smiled at him, and Dave couldn't help but smile back. His stomach was churning, though, a strange combination of jealousy and fear. A part of him yearned to be able to understand these stories, but although it was slowly receding he couldn't quite shake the fear that had been present ever since he had awoken alone in the hospital. The sincerity in Lydia's voice was clear, though, and he wondered just how close they had been.

Dave hadn't realised he'd voiced the thought out loud until Malia answered him. "We're pack, Dave."

Dave shook his head. "What does that even mean?" he asked.

"Family," Malia replied. Her brown eyes were soft, and Dave noticed with surprise that they were slightly damp. "So maybe we're not blood-related – so what? All blood relations have given me is a psycho murderer for a dad and I've never even met my real mum. That doesn't matter. We're family, and we'd die for each other, and that includes you. You might not remember us, but promise me you won't forget that."

There was a brutal honesty to her tone, and Dave felt his fear fading. He turned to Bobby with wide eyes. He wasn't sure if he was searching for advice or permission, but fortunately Bobby seemed to know exactly what was running through his head.

"You gotta take the bad with the good, kid, and whatever you choose you'll still have us," Bobby murmured, and beside him Dean nodded in agreement.

"I'm all for repressing memories, don't get me wrong," Dean said softly. "But giving up on family isn't something to do lightly."

Dave let the words sink in, and finally everything seemed to slide into place and for the first time in months, he felt at peace.

Castiel was hovering at the doorway, so Dave took a few steps toward him. "Okay," he said steadily.

Without a word, Castiel reached out a hand to his forehead, and Dave gasped as his head erupted with a splitting pain.

* * *

Scott unconsciously stepped forward, drawn toward his friend as he gasped in pain, the angel's hand pressed firmly against his forehead. A moment later, Castiel withdrew his hand and Scott darted forward to catch Stiles under the arms as his legs trembled and he threatened to fall for the second time that day.

Stiles seemed to steady himself under Scott's touch, and finally let out a groan. "Fucking _ow_ ," he muttered to himself, before shaking his head as though trying to dislodge. He glanced at Scott's arms and stiffened, finally seeming to realise his surroundings. "Don't worry, Scotty, I'm okay," he reassured.

It took a moment for the nickname to register, and when it did Scott threw himself forwards, gathering his friend in a tight hug and heaving a few deep, shaky breaths. "Stiles," he choked, squeezing tighter.

"Yeah, Scott, it's me," Stiles wheezed, patting Scott on the back. "Not to ruin the moment, but you're choking the life out of me."

Scott released Stiles as though he had been burned, eyes darting over his face. "You're okay?" he asked, worried.

Stiles smiled, raising a hand to cuff his shoulder affectionately. "Yeah, I'm good."


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

On February 25th 2014, Stiles Stilinski came home.

* * *

After Scott released him from their hug, Stiles found his arms filled with Lydia instead, and after that the floodgates opened. Malia had dragged him into a fierce kiss, and Stiles couldn't help but laugh at Dean's impressed expression and enthusiastic thumbs-up. He had grown serious, though, when she leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "Don't you ever leave me behind again," she had said in a rough voice, and Stiles had held her tightly to his chest and whispered a shaky promise in return.

Liam had a strangely torn expression as he went in for a handshake, as though he wished he could get away with a hug without suffering years of teasing afterward. Isaac, thankfully, had hung back, giving Stiles a clap on a back and making a sarcastic remark about taking so long to come back, to which Stiles had rolled his eyes and asked how France had treated Isaac's scarf collection. There was an undercurrent of warmth to the teasing that Stiles didn't like to think too much about, although he'd be lying if he said he didn't appreciate it.

Once everyone had welcomed him back, and Stiles had recovered from a minor panic attack over the realisation of how much schoolwork he would have to catch up on, the group had dispersed. Stiles made sure to drag a promise out of Parrish before he left to keep his mouth shut to his dad about his stealing a car, and he still wasn't sure if Parrish had been serious or not when he gave his word. It made him uncomfortable, and he had narrowed his eyes as Parrish's retreating back.

"Don't worry about it, Stiles," Scott had reassured him. "Your dad's really not going to care right now, trust me."

The door slid shut behind Parrish, and suddenly Scott was the last of the pack left in the room. "Your dad's probably at home right now – I can give you a ride, if you want?" he asked hesitantly.

Stiles shook his head. "Thanks, but I'll catch a lift with Bobby. I told you before, there's no way you're getting me on that death trap."

Scott smiled a little, before his face sobered and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Stiles," he started, voice small, "about Donovan –"

"Scott, don't," Stiles interrupted. The bubble of happiness in his chest deflated, and he felt the too-familiar darkness threaten to return. A small lump was forming in his throat, and he fought it off with an effort. He had come too far to return to the mess of anxiety and depression that he had been before.

Scott pressed his lips together unhappily, so Stiles took a deep breath and continued. "Look, did you mean what you said earlier?"

Scott nodded firmly. "Every word."

"Then can we just forget that it ever happened?" Stiles implored. "It feels like a lifetime ago. And I don't know if I can go through that again." He meant it too. There was a burning in his throat and a fluttering in his chest and he couldn't bear the thought of falling apart all over again.

Scott inhaled shakily. "Okay, but before we do – I need to say that I'm sorry." His mouth was tight, and there were faint lines around the corners of his eyes. "I was so fucked up back then with everything that was going on, and then Theo was messing with my head and I didn't know what to believe or what to do. Everything was falling apart, and I took it out on you." He shook his head slightly. "I didn't realise how badly I'd messed up until after you'd gone, and I never got the chance to say I'm sorry. I should have trusted you. I do trust you."

Stiles swallowed harshly, blinking back tears before he found his voice. "It's okay," he said softly. "I didn't trust you either, we both screwed up. So I'm sorry too, for my part."

Scott opened his mouth to protest, but Stiles reached out an arm and squeezed his shoulder gently. "So we're good?"

Scott hesitated, then smiled slightly. "We're good."

"Then let's never speak of this again."

"Deal," Scott replied.

And then Scott had left, taking off on his bike, and Bobby had offered Stiles a ride home. The truck was blissfully quiet, and Stiles took a moment to put himself back together during the short trip, letting the events of the day finally sink in. Neither of them spoke, and eventually Bobby pulled up in front of the house, the engine falling silent.

Lights were on inside, and Stiles could see a faint shadow moving through the curtains. This was it.

He should have been racing to the door, but Stiles hesitated. Turning to Bobby, he tried to figure out how to voice his thoughts, but Bobby beat him to it.

"I meant what I said earlier," Bobby said gently. "You've still got us, if you want us."

Stiles' throat burned, and he smiled gratefully. "Of course I do, Bobby, I just don't know how to thank you. You took me in when I had no one else, you were there for me when I needed you. I'll never be able to make it up to you."

"You don't have to," Bobby replied. "That's what family's for."

Tears pricked Stiles' eyes, and he moved in for a rough hug before he could stop himself. He might not have the words, but he hoped Bobby realised just how much that sentence meant to him. Bobby squeezed him gently, and somehow Stiles knew that the message was received.

After a long moment, they broke apart, and Stiles discreetly wiped at his eyes. "I'll give you a call later?" he asked hesitantly.

"If you don't, we'll be breaking down your door looking for you, kid," Bobby replied with a smile, and with that Stiles cracked open the truck door and jumped down to the sidewalk.

The driveway had never seemed longer, and the wait after Stiles knocked on the door stretched out for what seemed like hours. Finally, though, the door swung open and just like that his dad was there. Lined, gaunt, worn but wonderfully real, the Sheriff looked at him with shock.

Then he took a step forward and pulled Stiles to his chest, wrapping his arms around him fiercely, and for the first time in forever, Stiles breathed. He was home.


End file.
